


I'm Dyin' Here, Red (ON HOLD)

by PinkLion7



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, BoyxBoy, Canon Compliant, Cowboys, Cryptid/Supernatural Elements, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2020-10-18 22:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20646722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkLion7/pseuds/PinkLion7
Summary: What if John was the one to die? Killed by Black Lung on top of a mountain, facing the sunrise. What if Arthur was the one he had entrusted his family to? And what if he came back? Given a second chance by a mysterious force, be it God or fate, John must now make things right. With his family, with Arthur, and with himself.A Red Dead Redemption canon compliant (mostly) AUI apologize in advance for OOC-ness, please feel free to give constructive criticism.Also, at first it might seem like JohnxAbigail or JohnxAbigailxArthur, that's not what this is and I'm only doing that to move the story along. The main pairing will be JohnxArthur.Updates should happen at least once a month, with an ultimate goal of at least 100,000 words.Credit and a big thank-you to @dandywarholic for letting me use their cryptid idea, be sure to check out their fics!These characters are not my own, they belong to Rockstar Games.Thank-you also to my best friend who has agreed to beta this trashcan fire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Every Aching Old Machine Will Feel No Pain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17296325) by [dandywarholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandywarholic/pseuds/dandywarholic). 

> WARNING: I'm currently editing, so all chapters with notes at the end have been edited. I apologize for the remaining unedited chapters.  
Again, I should be updating this work at least once a month.
> 
> Ok folks lets take this paragraph by paragraph, stanza by stanza feeling by feeling and so on and so forth.  
The AU is: John gets tuberculosis instead of Arthur. Arthur has vowed to take care of John's family at Beecher's Hope, John goes to find them. All is mostly well until the events of RDR1 start. The government takes Abigail and Jack so Arthur and John have to hunt down the remaining gang members. Nobody dies at the end bcos I'm a sap. SLOW BURN WARNING. Things really get going for Morstan when they start to track Bill and proceeds *SLOWLY VERY SLOWLY* from then on.

John died on that mountain. He died facing the sunrise, with morning dew in his hair. He was at peace, finally. His family, Arthur, Sadie, Charles, they were all safe. Even though Micah and Dutch had escaped, Dutch believed him, and he'd do the right thing, one last time. John knew all of this, so he was content. For the first time in his life, he was content. Just his luck it'd be on his dying day. Whenever he imagined how he'd die, it was always in one blaze of glory or another. Gun in his hand, surrounded by the gang. But never like this. Not of Black Lung, all alone. Even the mightiest of men are no match against sickness, though. But John died all the same, whatever the cause. And... he was glad. All he wanted was his family to be safe, out of the life. John had done his best, so when the time finally came, he was glad. _Abigail, Arthur, they both would'a yelled at me for that,_ he thought. He wanted to see them again, and Jack too, desperately, but his time was up. So, John decided to be glad that they were safe. That he could finally stop running at just take a minuet to watch the sun rise. In those final moments, he thought of the people he loved most. 

Abigail, she had a temper like the devil, but she showed her love for him too in every action. He was glad he married her. Jack, even if he wasn't John's true son. He was a good kid, better than the rest of the gang, him included, and that was for sure. Arthur... He wasn't sure quite how he loved Arthur, and never tried to figure it out, but he loved him all the same. Dutch. John guessed he loved Dutch too. Even after everything the man had done to him, the man had arguably done more for him, and he was his father in all but blood. Hosea, Sadie, Charles, Karen, Tilly, Grimshaw, Molly, Lenny, Javier, Uncle, Pearson, Mary-Beth, Swanson, John took a moment to think of them all. He put them to rest, just as they would have to put him to rest. He wasn't afraid to admit he shed a few tears on that mountain.

Some muffled, far-off part of him didn't want to die. Was _scared_ of dying. He supposed that was natural. John had never been what you might call a Godly man, and he didn't know what came next. If what the reverend preached really was true, he guessed he was going to Hell. John had tried, really tried to be good in the end, but he didn't think that was enough to make up for a lifetime of sin. It was just as well. He'd lived a good enough life, did some things he regretted, sure, but hadn't everyone? John was done. That much he knew. But if he could have one last wish, it would be to let his family know he loved them. John turned his head to the bright, beautiful, new day and took one last shuddering breath. _So long, Red..._

_He was lying in the dirt on his back, turned towards a precipice. Everything was gray and cold, like the world had been leeched of life. Or maybe it was just him. A huge wolf paced in circles around him. He knew this one well. It was the one that had given him his scars, a long time ago. He felt no fear, and knew somehow that it was not here to hurt him. How could it be? The wolf was alone, different from the last time he had seen it, surrounded by its pack. He was cold, so cold. He'd always hated winter. Was it winter? John looked around. Hard to tell, as everything except the wolf had lost its color. It was black, with the same blazing yellow eyes and pink, lolling tongue, just like he remembered. Why was it here? John could do nothing but wonder and watch as it circled, closer and closer, seeming almost curious. Finally it stopped, less than an inch from his face. Still, he felt no fear. John felt... Nothing. The wolf looked into his eyes, and there was something there. Something more than animal, maybe more than human. It looked into his eyes, then it spoke. Its mouth never moved, but John could hear it all the same. It sounded almost like Hosea, almost like Dutch, almost like Arthur. "John," it said to him, "your story is not over yet. You must continue on. It was not your destiny to die here, alone upon this mountain." It blinked, and John felt his heart beat in time. "You have been saved, given another chance. Do not waste it." The wolf blinked its amber eyes once more, then was gone. And the gray faded to black._

John's eyes flew open and he gasped for breath. It was still sunrise, but now there was a familiar chill in the air and the trees were a patchwork of greens, reds, and browns. Everything hurt, except... He could breath. Through the pain, he felt stronger than he had in months. Automatically, he grasped at his hip for his pistol and started scanning the horizon, only for his hand to close on empty air. Right, he'd lost his pistol...

John tried to remember, even though it felt like Uncle was going at his head with an ax. What was he doing up here? Why did he hurt so much? How long had he been asleep? Had he even _gone_ to sleep? John closed his eyes. Remembered... Micah _the rat!_ and Dutch. They'd both left in separate directions, and he'd crawled up here to die, right? He _had_ died. Deep in his bones, he knew that a piece of him had died up here. So then what was he doing awake? He lay in the dirt and tried to puzzle it out.

After John had taken his last breaths, there was a dream. Everything had been gray, and he couldn't move. The wolf was there, too. The same one that he'd faced after Blackwater, but he hadn't been scared. It had talked to him. Told John that he was being given a second chance and not to waste it. He wasn't meant to die here. And now he was alive again. His body told him that much. Living the life he did, John had seen some weird, unexplained things, but he had died. Died! And now he was alive again, watching the sun rise and hearing the birds on a new day. Abigail, Arthur, Jack, they all thought he was dead! John realized with a start. Well, Arthur had always said he was one difficult sonovabitch to kill, guess he was right. Figures.

Arthur... John wanted to see him again. Badly. Him, and Abigail and Jack, John needed them like he needed air to breath. And now that he had the second, he was going to find the first, whatever it took. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed himself up off of the rocky ground. His mouth tasted like cotton and he was stiff and sore all over, but alive. The sun was almost fully risen now; it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. He took a breath of the brisk breeze, glad to be able to breathe freely, then looked around to get his bearings. That's when he saw it.

The wolf, the one from his dream, standing just down the path. It was watching him. Again though, he felt no fear. Just a... A connection, of sorts. To it. Instinctively, he knew they were tied together. The wolf would follow him, though it was by no means tame. It watched him for a few seconds more, then turned away and padded softly down the trail.

"Hey!" John shouted after it, voice hoarse and startling amid the quiet. It didn't look back. Would it ever speak to him again? John was tempted to run after it, but thought better of it. It wasn't like they were friends.

Best he could tell, John was near the East Grizzlies. In fact, he could see what must have been the Brandywine River in the distance. But none of that was much help. The river wouldn't tell him where his family was. But John was resourceful, and a plan had already started to form. He'd have to steal a horse, rob someone for provisions, firstly. Then, John would have to set about finding his family. It was going to be difficult, and it would take longer than he was comfortable with, but he knew it would be worth it. He _would_ find his family. Right now, he wasn't even worried about Micah or Dutch. He just wanted to see them again. Joints aching, he stumbled to his revolver and started his way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes: So what did you think? Hopefully, you liked it, else you wouldn't be here. Again, feel free to give me any and all criticisms you think I need to hear. Remember, this story is a slow burn, so if you aren't in it for the blueballs, I don't know why you came lol. The next chapter is pretty short, but chapter breaks will continue to vary based on where I think is best for the tone I'm trying to deliver. Happy reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey! That's my horse!" The man yelled after him. He had stolen the man's horse right out from under him in his camp at the base of the mountain. It was lucky, and John hoped it would hold. Not the best horse he'd ever had, and certainly no Old Boy, but he was in no place to be picky. A bay roan Morgan, it wasn't very handsome, but the previous owner had taken good care of it.

"Sorry!" He shouted back. "It's for a good cause!" He didn't think the man would agree, but he wasn't the one with a horse.  
"I'm gonna call you New Girl." He whispered to the horse as it raced along the trail. Arthur wouldn't have approved, called him stupid probably, but at least John could pronounce it. He missed him, all of them, really. And once he found them, he was going to make good on his second chance.

John rode most of the day, slowing down to a brisk trot once he had gotten far enough away. It would be no use running his new horse into the ground. But now, the sun was beginning to set over the pines, and although the day had been surprisingly warm, it was starting to cool. John slowed New Girl down to a walk with a soft tug on the reins and started hunting for dinner.  
An hour later saw him with a single hard-won rabbit. Arthur or Charles could have brought down twice that many, and a deer to boot, but they weren't here right now. _Times like these,_ John thought as he looked down at the mangy rabbit, _I wish I would'a hunted more._ He was a crack shot with a pistol, but failed when it came to hunting anything other than men.

The night darkened quickly, and he hurriedly built a small fire. As he sat near it, savoring the smell of rabbit roasting over the flames, he thought. Where would he go next? He had no idea where to start. John looked up to the cold stars as if they might answer him. What seemed like a lifetime ago, Hosea had taught him constellations. The man seemed to know everything, and John had always felt like he could never measure up. Still, he had enjoyed the night when the older man had roused him from his sleep and made him sit under the stars, shivering, and learn. He'd always remembered how to find the North Star, and that alone had saved him many a time. A wolf howled in the distance, and he had an idea.

John turned away from the sky to where he thought the howl had come from, and spoke into the velvety blackness. He prayed to whomever might be listening.

"You said this was my second chance, but I don't know where to go." John said the last part quietly. As obvious as it usually was, he hated admitting he was wrong. "Guess I was meant to make things right, but..." He faltered. He felt stupider than ever. What was he doing, talking to no one? "I don't know how. Please, I need to go back... Amen." He finished. That's how the Reverend always ended his prayers, and he supposed this was a prayer too. John snorted at his own hypocrisy, and went to eat supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes: I'm sorry this wasn't very long, but I just need to get things moving and give some exposition before it all gets going, so bear with me here. I'm really insecure about whether or not these characters are OOC, so if you think so, either now or in the coming chapters, please don't hesitate to notify me. I'll also try my best not to forget about the supernatural elements, and if you guys think that's being underrepresented, again tell me. See you next chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

Again, he woke with the sun. John had not slept well. The night was cold, and by the time drawn broke, his clothes were damp through. That, and he was stiffer than a pine board. Having no bedroll had not helped his post-death aches and pains one bit. _Post-death, what an odd thing to think._ He'd awoken on his back, so he slowly rolled onto his side to get up, stretching his joints and dusting off his travel-stained clothes. John looked enviously at New Girl, who was hobbled nearby. She'd started to grow out her winter coat already, and looked much warmer than him. But John supposed he couldn't complain, there was crisp air in his lungs and dirt beneath his feet. Before he could get lost in rumination, he shook his head and went to bury the fire.

"Good morning," he greeted New Girl as he patted her neck and set about brushing her down, "ready for another day of riding?" She didn't answer. John didn't usually make a habit of talking to his animals, that was Arthur's thing. But as of late, they were the only company he had, and good listeners at that.

For all his vowing to find his family, John didn't know where to start. In the shit soup it had been before his showdown, Arthur hadn't said where he'd be taking Abigail and Jack. At the time, it wasn't a needed detail. They both knew he wouldn't survive long enough to use it. But against all odds, against all _nature_, he had. So, he figured it wouldn't hurt to begin in the nearest town. He would check first for any mail concerning a 'Tacitus Kilgore,' the gang's shared alias.

He forgot about all of that as soon as he climbed in the saddle. It was hard to explain, but there was a sort of... pull? It felt like a hook in his chest that was pulling him towards somewhere. Going anywhere else seemed foolish now. Confused, John looked around. He saw nothing to explain the feeling. _Is this the sign I was praying for?_ It was the wolf, standing in the edge of his vision, that confirmed it. It started trotting in the direction of that pull, flicking its tail at him as if to say "Come on." John supposed it was as good a lead as any.

"Let's go, then." He flicked New Girl's reins and started down the wooded path after the wolf.

It disappeared after a few minutes, but thankfully the the pull didn't. He thought as he rode of all he would have to answer for once he got back. They all thought he was dead. John didn't think Abigail would ever forgive him (even if it hadn't been his fault), and his relationship with Jack had been tenuous even _before_ he had up and died. And Arthur... John knew that Arthur had hated him for dealing with Micah and Dutch alone, and had left only because it was his dying wish. He had no doubt that Arthur would keep them safe, and that was why he'd asked Arthur. John hoped he would forgive him, but John didn't even know if the older man had forgiven him for the _first_ time he'd run off alone!

Even if Arthur never forgave him... It was just- he'd felt like he _had_ to leave, that first time. He knew that if he didn't, he would do something he'd regret. Back then, before time had tempered him a bit, John felt too much. He had never been good with feelings, explaining them or acting like they weren't there, or any of the things that the older members of the camp seemed to be capable of. John ran hot with his emotions, he always had. It was what had almost gotten him hanged, as a kid and as an adult. If he was angry, then by God the world would feel every ounce of his rage. And if he was happy, then he thought it reasonable that the whole country should know. That was why he left. To find himself, and then change the person he found.

On that trip, John learned things. Things he needed know and never wanted to know. Never _knew_ he wanted to know. And he never told anyone. He'd slid from bar to bar, stealing what he needed, or what he wanted. One night he had robbed, while drunk, a very wealthy man who had happened to be staying in the town he was visiting. After, he'd bragged to the barroom of what he thought were lowlifes and other such scum as him. Well, scum they turned out to be, because the next morning he woke up beaten and bruised on the floor, with only the clothes on his back. A beggar with even less than him had given him had helped John up and sympathized about the hard knocks of life. That was the day he learned not to boast.

He had moaned and bitched and complained about the sorry state of his life to every unfazed bartender, nameless prostitute, and homely drinking partner that he encountered. Whether they listened or not, John noticed that it helped, if only a little bit, to ease the weight of what felt like a house sitting on his chest. That was the year he learned how to use his words.

As John robbed, lied, and drank his way across the American Midwest, he invariably met people. They varied from dirt he wouldn't trust on the ground to modern-day saints. Oddly enough, the former tended to be the ones with the most, while the latter was usually downtrodden. He met people. So many different people who had impacted his life in so many different ways, it hurt to think about it. That was the year he learned that love was complicated.  
Mostly, he had tried to steal from those who were fortunate. People a man like Leviticus Cornwall would approve of, and people and man like Dutch Van der Linde would approve of stealing from. When he had extra, he gave it away. After awhile, John stopped missing it. That was the year he learned that things only hold value when we want them to.

That was the year John became a man, rather than a little boy in too-big britches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Whoo! I don't know about you, but that was a lot of narration! I'm slowly coming to learn that as a writer, I rely more on narration and exposition to move the story along and show how the characters feel, but I'll try to make it more exciting with action later. This chapter, like all the ones with notes, has been edited from the original posting, and in this one I added all that stuff up there. It used to be really short, and I just felt like it was missing something. Also, I feel like John's gap year was not given enough detail at all in canon, so I wanted to talk about it, and didn't have a good place to do it until now. Hope you liked it!**


	4. Chapter 4

John had been riding in woods that were getting steadily denser for a few hours when he heard a commotion coming closer up ahead. A women was screaming. He stopped his horse and put a hand on his pistol. Hoof beats, coming closer and closer, then finally, the animal crested the rocky hill in front of him. A large, mean-looking man was riding with a woman tied to the back. "Shut up, I say! You no-good two-cent whore!" The man shouted, then pistol whipped her. He flew down the trail past John without giving him a second glance. John was torn. The pull in his chest was as strong as ever, and this really wasn't his business, but... He wheeled New Girl around and spurred her after him.

Soon enough, he caught up. "Hey!" He shouted over the horses and the screaming. "You shouldn't treat a lady like that!" John really didn't want this to turn ugly, but he had no doubt the man was as mean as he looked.

"Mind your own damn business, cowpoke! This bitch here's mine!" The man had halted his horse and was pointing a rusty shotgun at him. John half-drew his own gun, but put up a placating hand and tried again.

"Sorry, it's just... I can't help but notice that she doesn't seem to agree." John motioned to the woman, who was wide-eyed but now silent. She shook her head at him.  
"I _said_ to mind yourself!" He shouted again, and John could see it in his eyes, the man was ready to kill. Fortunately, he was quicker on the draw. Like it always did, time seemed to molasses and suddenly he had a bullet between the eyes before he could blink. Unfortunately, he dropped the shotgun, which went off when it hit the ground, putting a bullet in the horse's stomach.

"Shit!" John shouted as it reared the woman off and ran. He jumped off his own horse and cut the her free. She was covered in blood and too shocked to do much more than cry, so he left her there and sprinted after the horse. It wasn't hard to follow the blood trail and the poor horse's keening whinnies. He found it collapsed in a creek, nearing death. Silent except for the single shot, he put it out of its misery. "I'm sorry, you didn't deserve this." He murmured before running back to the woman. John really hoped she hadn't run off.

Thankfully, he found her where he'd left her, huddled in the coarse dirt. She was spattered with her captor's blood, which stained her clothes and wheat-gold curls. John managed to find a rag in his satchel, and he handed it to her. Shakily, she started to clean up. Really, she couldn't have been over twenty. He shook his head, then looked at the man he'd killed. _Some people._ Slowly, he approached her, hands up and open to show he wasn't a threat.

"Hey, hey. It's alright. You're gonna be alright. What's your name sweetheart?" John was trying to be reassuring, but he didn't think his scarred face and rough appearance was helping. She turned to face him, eyes red and lip trembling.

"L-Laura. Laura Gardner." She whimpered. "That man, the things he said he'd do to me...!" She broke into a fresh fit of crying. John *hated* it when people cried. He always felt like he'd caused it. (Most of the time, he had.)

"Shh. Hey Laura, he's gone now, okay? I'm Jim Milton." He didn't much like lying to a girl such as this, but growing up in the life had made it second nature. "Is there anybody I can take you to?" He didn't want to touch her more than was needed, but now seemed like a good time to gently pat her shoulder.

"No, there's no one. He-... He killed my family! Oh, momma, papa, little Belle, they're all dead!" If John knew one thing about tragedy, it was that you should stay as far away from it as possible. Laura wasn't going to be okay until she got away from the past.

"Miss Gardener, look at me. It will be okay. Do you have any friends you can stay with? Anyone?" She looked up at him, and John already knew the answer.

"No..." John sighed. He wasn't a good man, but he wasn't heartless either.

"Do you want to come with me, then? I can give you a ride to the nearest town if you'd like." He offered. Silently, she nodded. John whistled for New Girl, then helped Laura up behind him. "The nearest town is Pikeshead, they have a hotel there." He told her. John had been in this area before, in that year he was alone. That being said, he couldn't remember much about it except that it had average booze but exceptional working girls.

Once they arrived in the bustling lumber town, Laura spoke up. She'd been quiet the whole ride, save for the occasional sniffle, and John didn't want to push her. She'd been through a lot already. "Jim?" He looked up from the muddy thoroughfare. "I was hoping- Would it be okay if I traveled with you for a bit longer? I really do have nowhere to go, and it's just- I know you've been kind enough to me..."John was surprised. Laura wanted to stay with him? He had no ill intentions towards her, but he wasn't the sort of man people would deem 'kind' at first glance.

"Oh... Of course, if you want. Are you sure, though? I have a bit of money I could give you-"

"Jim, please don't offer me money. It is enough that you're letting me stay. Thank you." Why was he letting her stay with him? He could barely come by enough food and supplies for himself! And what would Abigail think when she saw him ride up with another woman? John shivered at the thought. But he couldn't very well cut her loose now, could he?

"Alright... Well, ah, I have to stop at the store, so you're welcome to come in or stay here." John explained, hitching his horse at the post outside the general store. Laura slid off after him and they went inside.

The store wasn't much to look at, bare pine boards with a tiny porch out front, the standard in towns like this one, but it would do well enough. The shopkeeper eyed them warily as they walked in, Laura stained with blood and John with travel. Laura drifted over to the catalog while John set about picking up food, bedrolls, ammo, everything he and Laura might need for the journey ahead. After this, he didn't plan on stopping until he got to his family. And either Laura would stay with him until then or she wouldn't.

"Ready?" John asked Laura after he'd payed. John now had only a measly twenty dollars and pocket change, but he guessed it didn't matter now. It would be enough to get Laura her own horse (hopefully). She nodded, so he tipped his hat at the clerk and walked out. Instead of to his horse, John led them to the stables, near the edge of town. "You know how to ride, don't you?" He hoped so.

"A bit. Enough to follow you, so long as we don't get into any more gunfights." Laura added, giving him a small smile. John smiled back. "That's the plan, now let's get you a horse."

The flaxen chestnut Morgan they decided on for her took the rest of his money, it was a necessary expense. He didn't know how far they had to go, and doubling up on New Girl would just slow them down. "I think I'll name her May." Laura decided.

"Good name."

"May I ask where we're going? I've never been around these parts." John was glad she seemed to be getting out of her head a bit more, but didn't think he should tell her he didn't know, that he was just following a feeling.

"I'm going to my family." Was the best answer he could think of. John hoped she wouldn't pry further. He wasn't much of a talker on his best days, and he didn't want to terrify Laura by telling her about his past. Thankfully, she didn't seem to think his vague answer was odd.

"Oh? What are they like?" John sighed. This was going to be a long ride.

"Well, I am a... Homesteader, and I sent my wife and son to go live on the property while I took care of the paperwork. My- brother is up there too." He lied. John really wanted to avoid going into too much detail. While he told his story, he tried not to look at Laura. He had always been told that he had a shit poker face. As always, John was watching, he scanned the horizon, checked behind him, and glared suspiciously at any traveled they met on the road. They were currently passing through a badly burnt section of forest, and the smell of charcoal filled the air. The sun glinted off the smooth, bare black pines as Laura thought about her response.

"Oh, are going to start a ranch?" She asked. If he had lived a normal life, John thinks that he might have grown up to be a rancher. _Never too late to start._

"That's the plan, but I don't have too much experience." Every now and again, John had taken odd jobs as a farmhand and gained some knowledge, but even now he knew that he would be relying mostly on Arthur's guidance. And that's assuming Abigail decides to welcome him back.

"If not farming, then what _do_ you have experience in?"

"Bounty hunting," he lied. From beside New Girl, John saw Laura nod. For a while, the only sounds were the crunching of brittle sticks under the horses' hooves and the tweeting of birds.

"Now that we have that all out of the way, do you want to tell me who you really are, Mr. Milton?"

John and Laura looked at each other. There was grief in her sky-blue eyes, yes, but that was to be expected. There was also a fierce look of determination and a bit of self-satisfaction. John didn't see anything untoward in those eyes, so he told her. It was a bit of a risk, but she had proved her mettle to him already. And it'd been so long since he had truly talked to anyone. Even during his gap year, he had never told anyone the full truth. He needed someone outside the gang to know him. So, he told her his name and his life, and through the story, she was quiet. He saw no fear in her, nor any disgust, which must have been a first. The skeletal pines were shrinking and the razed ground had grown tufts of new grass when he finally finished. At the end, all she said was

"Pleasure to meet you, John Marston."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Before you all start screaming at me, yes, I know that Pikeshead isn't a real town. I made it up for the sake for the story, and envisioned it to be a sort of Valentine/Strawberry crossover. Like I said, this town is fictional, and you won't be hearing about it again. Now, I really was not sure about the ending. Before editing, it ended at 'it was going to be a long ride,' but going back, I wanted to detail the conversation and more fully flesh out Laura's character. She hasn't quite dealt with her grief and horror just yet, but that will come soon. It has to, or she'd seem way too shallow. So what do you think? Also, please tell me if/when Laura's voice starts to get muddled, because I have a hard time keeping my OCs, well, in character.**


	5. Chapter 5

They stopped shortly after sundown in a small clearing off the road, complete with a stream. The evergreens had shrunk, regained their foliage, and eventually petered out to smaller clumps of deciduous trees dotting the grassy hills. He wondered where in the world they were riding to. John had been all over, but even he had never seen this area before. All he knew was that he just had to keep following the pull.

Once he had hobbled the horses, John put up the single tent for Laura and went to gather firewood. "If anything happens scream, okay?" He hadn't seen more than a few lone travelers outside of Pikeshead, but outlaw life had taught him that he could never be too careful.

"Okay. There's a creek nearby, I need to get the blood out of these clothes." Laura walked off.

John thought about how Abigail might react when he came back, with a girl no less. He hoped she knew he'd always stay true. He was a bad man, but an honest one. She'd done nothing to him that he probably deserved first, and he loved her. John had never felt like that about a woman. Off to his left, the snap of things pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Hello?" He called uncertainly. From underneath the shadow of a pine, the wolf emerged. "Oh, it's just you." John didn't know when the wolf had become 'just you' to him. "What do you want? Have you come to tell me what a fool I've been?" He asked. It just looked at him and blinked, as usual. John got the feeling it would never have anything to tell him. Tentatively, he took a few steps towards it. Arthur always _had_ said he had no brains. The moment he got close enough to touch it, the wolf snarled. "Don't like that, huh?" John backed off. _What are you thinking, trying to pet a wolf like one of those crazy circus tamers?_ Asked a voice that sounded suspiciously close to Arthur's. John sighed and walked back to camp, first fallen leaves crunching under his boots.

When John got back he found Laura sitting near the horses and staring at her hands, which lie twisted in her lap. She glanced up at him, and she rose. He nodded at her, then went to start a fire.

"Not much of a conversationalist, are you?" She asked, now standing and watching him.

"Don't have much to say," he countered. It was true, at least for her. He would have a whole lot to say to his family once he got back. John had told Laura a bit about them when she'd asked earlier, seemed she was still curious.

"So, Arthur, would you say he's your brother?"

"Guess so." John tried to focus on making the stew for dinner. He'd told her everything this morning, was it not enough?

"What's he like?" She was a curious one.

John paused as he tried to think of the right words to describe Arthur Morgan. He'd never been asked that before. "...Rough, like the rest of us. But he was always better. Smarter'n me, that's for sure. I used to hate him for that. Used to hate 'im for a lotta things. Still do, sometimes." John smiled and trailed off into memories.

"What did your parents do?" He asked after a bit of silence in which the new fire occupied. After another stretch of silence John looked up and saw Laura's face. She looked grief-stricken. Her eyes were wide, fearful, and they didn't seem to see all of him. Her chin and hands trembled just a little. "Aw, shit," John tried desperately to backpedal.

"I'm sorry, Miss Gardener. That was wrong of me to ask-"

"No, no, it's okay. I need to talk about them. And call me Laura, please" She sniffled, and kept talking as the stars came out. "Papa worked on the trains out of Emerald Ranch. He was gone a lot, but would always bring us back a treat from whatever city he'd visited. Mama was a maid in the meantime, we all lived together in one of the houses around there. They were saving up for me to go a fancy finishing school in New York, and little Belle always wanted to be a seamstress." Laura's voice had been growing steadily quieter the more she talked, and by the time she was finished, tears were flowing freely down her face. The crackling of the fire was the only sound, save for the hoots of far-off owls.

"Hey," John patted her shoulder gently, feeling awkward, "how about you go get some rest? I'll leave you a bowl once the stew's done." He looked at her while he talked, hoping to convey some comfort that way. She nodded, swiped at her eyes, then went into the tent, where soft sniffles continued to emanate.

John really was stupid. Why had he asked her that? Stupid, insensitive, and selfish. That was John. Abigail would have a day over this, and Arthur would just give him that look he always did when John couldn't help but be John. The one that was a mixture of pity, exasperation, chastisement. The one that made John feel like a child and want to eat his words. He sighed.

"Wish you were here, old man."

In all his earliest memories of the gang, Arthur was there. Teaching him how to shoot, how to ride. Though he would have rather died than admit it back then, he idolized him. John had followed Arthur around like a goddamned lost puppy. Arthur was all John had striven to be: strong, confident, witty, someone Dutch could trust with important things. Seems he'd gotten it only half-right; he was strong and could act confident enough, but John had never been known for his wits, and in the end, Dutch... Well, Dutch. Him, Hosea and Arthur, he was always striving for their approval in one way or another, and made a fool of himself more times than he could count because of it. Arthur had always seemed larger than life to him, more of a storybook hero and less of a real person. Invincible and unshakable, a force of nature. That had faded the older he'd grown and the more he'd seen of Arthur, but he was still cemented in John's mind as the strongest.

John let himself revisit old memories, happy and sad, while he stirred the stew. He sorely regret that year he was gone. Running had been the only life he'd ever known, and when his life got to be too much for him, he ran from it like a coward. He left Abigail and little Jack, the whole gang, alone for a year while he tried to find himself. A horrible, lonely year filled with bad decisions. In the end, he'd learnt some valuable lessons, but He didn't think Arthur ever forgave him. In the months following his return, the man barely spoke to him at all. John hadn't ever forgiven himself, either.

Unsurprisingly, by the time it was done, his eyes were just the slightest bit wet. He was glad Laura was in her tent (though he was sorry for the reason), it wouldn't do for her to see him get all weepy over nothing. Seems like death had softened him. John chuckled at himself as he portioned the stew into two bowls. "C'mon, you sad bastard."

As he lay on his his bedroll later that night, John counted the stars. He was still a little melancholy from earlier. He spotted the Big Dipper, Orion, and a few others. Hosea had taught him what to look for when they'd first gone out hunting... _Stop it,_ he told himself, _you'll just make yourself sad all over again. Go to sleep._ So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oof, even after editing I'm still super unsure of the ending. (I really really suck at endings.) Is it too abrupt? Too short? Not enough exposition/detail? I don't know, but I couldn't think of anything better :((... So onto other things, about the landscape details: for now I'm mostly making them up as I go along, and if they're not made-up then they're out of order. If this seems like lazy writing to you, it is. Currently, I'm not really paying attention to the time spent or areas travelled as John and Laura get to where they're going, but as they get closer, things will gradually become (hopefully) more canon-reminiscent. **


	6. Chapter 6

"Sleep well?" Laura asked him a few days later as he packed up camp. John just grunted. He hadn't. The pull was getting stronger and stronger the nearer he got and it kept him up at night. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep if he could be traveling, but Laura and the horses needed rest. So, they rested, however many sleepless nights it cost John. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of the wolf since the night after Pikeshead. He could only guess that it was still following him.

Also, John was nervous. They were camped in near the edge of a pine forest just a day's ride from Blackwater, and even though it'd been years, John couldn't help but watch for Pinkertons or anyone who might recognize him. He well remembered that night. Thinking back on it, John decided that was where things had really gone wrong. _Just wish I would'a seen it coming,_ he thought.

"You never told me where your family went. Are we getting close?" John really hoped they weren't in Blackwater, and instincts told him it was a safe guess. Arthur would never do something that stupid. But if not in the city, then where? John couldn't remember seeing any sales when he had last been in the area, but once again, it had been years.

"Yeah, they're outside of town." Was it considered lying if John didn't know the truth? The only thing he had left out of his story to Laura was the ending. She thought that he had simply sent Arthur on with his family and gone to fight Dutch and Micah himself. She knew nothing of his death or the wolf, and hopefully never would. He didn't plan on telling Abigail or Arthur, either. Though, he'll probably just figure it out on his own. He knew it would hurt at least Abigail to hear of his death (even though he'd come out just fine in the end) and Arthur would never even believe him.

An eternity later, after a tense pass through the heart of Blackwater, the pull left. It was like a knot loosening in his chest, the best thing he'd ever felt. It went away as soon as he passed through the gateway to a place called Beecher's Hope. From what he could see it was ranch, nestled in the rolling plains, perfect for cattle. Hurriedly, he rode up the path with Laura behind him and stopped short when he saw the house. It was a proper home, newly built with the sun setting behind it. The grounds, consisting of a silo, barn, and corral, were deserted, but there were lights on in the house and laughter spilling out an open window. Abigail's laughter, just as he remembered it. Loose, light and quick, just like it had been when he'd met her. This was it. This was home. A wolf howled in the distance, and he knew he wasn't alone. But all that flew out of his mind as He dismounted New Girl, not even bothering to hitch her and ran up the steps with tears in his eyes.

"John, John wait!" Laura called after him. The sounds inside stopped at her call, and John heard footsteps running towards the door. Laura had just made it onto the porch and he had just taken off his hat when the door swung open. Abigail was there, with Jack at her side, book in hand, Arthur behind her, always ready for trouble, and Uncle looking from behind a corner. There was a moment of stunned silence, then-

"John?"

"Papa?"

"John."

"John!"

He smiled, and tried not to cry. Seems Abigail had the same idea, but it came out as more of a teary grimace instead. Before he knew what to say, she had slapped him and stormed off. Touching his cheek despite the pain, he smiled. It was a good sign. He felt pressure at his waist and looked down to see Jack hugging him. He hadn't realized just how much the boy had grown.

"You're back, papa." He hugged him tight, like he hadn't gotten to before.

"Look at you, all grown up! You the man of the house now?" Jack smiled sheepishly and eventually let him go. Then Jack, after seeing the look Arthur gave John, let them be. Uncle got the message too, though he was sure the older man would give him an earful later.

"John." Arthur said again, voice rough. The man had a sea of emotions in his blue eyes, but unlike John, had no trouble holding them back.

"A-Arthur?" He was embarrassed by his stutter, but why didn't Arthur look happy to see him? In fact, he looked... Angry?

"You had tuberculosis." He stated.

"I did indeed." John smiled, glad to be back trying to break some of the tension that had come out of nowhere.

"Nobody survives that." Arthur was confusing him, as usual. What was he trying to say?

"Guess it just weren't my time." 'It was not your destiny to die here, alone upon this mountain.' The wolf's words came back to him.

"'Weren't your time'?" Arthur exploded. "John, you were dying! I saw it! You couldn't go half an hour without keelin' over choking on your own blood, at the end! And now- and now you look like nothing's happened!" He shouted. Why was he this angry?

"But aren't you happy I'm back?" John was ashamed to say his voice cracked. He hated the way he made him so vulnerable. Arthur huffed like a horse about to kick.

"Happy? Yeah, sure." He sneered. Then, without another word, he shouldered past John and stomped into the barn, slamming the heavy door behind him.

"What was all that?" Laura asked, peeking in around the doorway from the porch. John spooked, he had forgotten she was there.

"Ah, come in, please. Sorry 'bout... All that. 'Bout time you met the family, huh?" He stepped aside to let her in, then with a last glance at the barn, shut the door behind him.

"So, that was Arthur? He seemed real happy to see you." John could hear the sarcasm in her voice as he led Laura (well, wandered with her following) into what was probably the kitchen. It had a modest wood stove where the remains of dinner sat. Near it was a rough-hewn table crowded with Uncle, Abigail, and Jack. Seeing them all, John couldn't help but smile, even if the pretty picture was missing someone.

"Laura, this is my wife, Abigail, my son Jack, and the flea-bitten hog in the corner is Uncle. Abigail, Jack, flea-bitten hog, meet Laura Gardener." Laura curtsied, Jack waved politely, and Abigail surged to her feet.

"Now, that's a little harsh, don't you think, John? I took care of your family-" Uncle began, just as John expected him to. It still seemed unreal, seeing him here. John thought he had died. He guessed that's what everyone else thought about him, too.

"Shut it, old man." Abigail snarled, then rounded on them. It was good to see her again, even if he was about to be accused of adultery. "Laura, was it? May I ask just where my dog of a husband found you?" If Laura realized that Abigail was implying her to be a prostitute, she didn't show it. Instead she smiled graciously and stepped forward.

"Mrs. Marston, I first must compliment you on your lovely home, and to tell the truth, John rescued me. I was in the process of being kidnapped when John shot the man off his horse and offered to return me to my home. The only reason I stayed was because that evil, evil man had made it so that I had nowhere to return to. If you think he broke his vows while away from you, then you'd be sorely mistaken. John is a man of his word, and I think you know that too." After this speech, Abigail had the grace to look a bit embarrassed at her outburst.

"Oh, Miss Gardener, I do know that, it's just- well. Have a seat, please. Are you hungry? There's some food left-" _If this is what it gets me, maybe I should flatter her more often_, John thought.

"I'm alright, ma'am. Really, I don't mean to intrude-"

"Intrude? You could never. Sleep on Jack's bed tonight, we'll get you figured out in the morning." Jack opened his mouth to complain, but one scathing look from Abigail had him shutting it again.

"You're too kind, really. Thank you all so much." Laura sniffled and smiled at John and Abigail, then left the kitchen, presumably to get her things from May.

"Really, John, a girl? Now, I'm not saying you should have done differently, but we've got enough mouths to feed as it is with winter coming on and-" John pulled her into a hug.

"Stop your worrying, woman. We're not gonna starve. I'm just glad to be back." And he was. No matter what happened now, John felt like everything would turn out okay for once. Abigail quieted, but pushed him back and held him at arm's length.

"About that. How are you back, John Marston? We all knew you was gonna die. Nobody just gets over Black Lung. You know that. What happened, really?" John knew this was going to come, he just wished he could've had a few more moments of blissful peace.

He wanted to, but he didn't think he could tell her the truth. She wouldn't believe him. Hell, he barely believed himself! 'Well you see Abigail, I did actually die. But then I had a dream where the wolf that gave me this ugly mug came to to me and told me it wasn't my destiny. Then I woke up months later, and the wolf follows me around now. Oh, and also, the only way I found you was because I prayed, and then God or the wolf or whoever reeled me in like a fish to here. What have you been up to?' John could see how that might go. So instead, as much as it pained him to do so, he lied. Because he had no other choice, because he didn't want to drive away what he had so recently secured, because he didn't want to waste his second chance. He had an excellent poker face, but he hoped Abigail wouldn't see it for what it was: a bald-faced lie. Guilt settled like a stone in his stomach as he began.

"It was after I had sent Arthur to go help you two. I was bad, real bad. I'd gone up to higher ground, and that oily rat Micah followed me. We fought it out, and I thought he was gonna be the one to do me in, but Dutch showed up. I tried to talk to him Abigail, make him see Micah for what he was. I don't know if it worked. Micah stormed off, and Dutch went the other direction. I thought I was gonna die there, on that mountain, watchin' the sun rise. Then, this man found me. He looked Asian, said he had a 'miracle cure' for what ailed me, all the way from the east. I thought it was a load of bull, but I was dyin' anyway, so I tried it. Tasted like shit, but after a few days of him nursin' me back to health, I felt better. I swear to God and above, Abigail, that man saved my life. Once I had my strength up, I came here to find you as fast as I could. Took me awhile, though. Arthur hid you guys good." John was definitely going to Hell now, but the relieved look on Abigail's face as she was spoon-fed an easy story was worth it. She wouldn't be driving him away now, and that was enough. They would be happy again.

"John, it's a miracle! Oh, I'm so happy you're back, I thought I'd never see you again." She hugged him again, but not for long. "But so help me John, if you ever do something like that again, you're gonna wish you died up there." She slapped his chest without force. "You had me so worried..." He sighed and gathered her in his arms. They were making a bit of a scene in front of Uncle and Jack, but at the moment, he could care less.

"Abigail, you know I'd never leave you if I have anything to say about it. I love you, and I'm just happy to see you again." He pressed a kiss into her hair. Finally, he was home. "Now, I have to go see what spit in Arthur's stew. From the way he's actin' you'd think he didn't want to see me again." John frowned in consternation.

"Oh, don't worry, he's happy you're back. He took it hard though, you know that, John. He hated to stay behind when he could've helped you." Abigail patted his shoulder, then slapped his arm playfully. "Go. Make it up to him before he decides he's better off elsewhere." So John went. Even as he left the kitchen, he could practically hear the gears in Uncle's head turning as the older man planned out the unavoidable lecture. John smiled. God, it's good to be home.

Cautiously, he knocked on the barn door. The new moon shone coldly down through the brisk autumn skies, and John wrapped his arms around himself. He hated the cold.

It was still sinking in, the fact that he had all this. John had always nurtured a far-off dream of being a rancher, but never once thought he'd see it come to fruition. Not with his life. There was no answer from inside, and John didn't know what to make of it. He didn't know what to make of any of this. Used to be, he knew the man nearly better than he knew himself, but after he'd run off for that year, something had shifted between them. It was no longer the easy companionship he remembered. John came back a changed man, and so it seemed, had Arthur. His friend, his brother, had become colder and more closed-off, treating John like someone he'd never known. It had hurt, it still hurt, even after all these years. It hurt worse than he expected, ached like an old bullet wound whenever John felt like they were getting to know each other again.

But John guessed he understood. He didn't hold it against Arthur. The man had a... a way, to him. It made you fight to gain his trust, and it hurt bad if you lost it. Arthur didn't trust easily, but he had trusted John. Once. John felt like he'd been slowly getting that trust back over the years, and now he'd gone and lost it again. John Marston, you are one stupid son of a bitch. Arthur still hadn't answered, so John chanced knocking again and calling out.

"Arthur! Arthur, you still in there?" It felt like Arthur was purposefully ignoring him, but John could never know for sure when it came to the other man. He sighed. In the distance, a wolf howled. He glanced in its direction, but didn't see anything in the deepening night.

"Look, I'm sorry for whatever I did!" He shouted into the lonely night. "But I came back, alright? I came back, as soon as I could! I didn't think I was gonna survive, and that's the only reason I sent you with Abigail! Because I didn't think was gonna be there to protect her, but I knew you would be. I'm sorry, all right?" John paused. His only answer was the night breeze through the grass. "I'm sor-"

The barn door was wrenched open. "Stop apologizing, Marston, and get in here before you freeze." Arthur muttered, then led the way to the back of the barn, where an empty stall served as a makeshift bedroom. The lanterns that hung on the beams above illuminated thick quilts that sat on a pile of hay in the corner, and near the gate was an old stool where Arthur's journal and saddlebags rested. He watched John take it all in, then explained, "I sleep out here whenever Uncle decides he wants the couch bad enough. I was plannin' on adding another room to the house, but I wanted to wait until after winter." If John didn't know better he would say that Arthur seemed almost... Nervous? He never knew with the man.

John sat down in the hay and grabbed a quilt to wrap around his shoulders. It was warmer in the barn, but not by much. He didn't see how the man could stand it. "I'm-"

"Stop apologizing."

John stopped apologizing. For a while, the only sounds were the horses and the flickering of the oil lamps.

"Did you know, they have those gas cars now? Passed through Blackwater on my way here, saw a bunch of 'em." John started.

"Yeah." Was Arthur's reply. He'd sat down too, opposite from John, and was now staring into his journal, not writing or reading.

"World's really changing, isn't it." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah." Arthur didn't seem to want to talk. John did, but he didn't push it. For now, he just enjoyed the fact that Arthur was letting him be here. John knew he'd have to go back into the house at some point; it was chilly out here, and if he didn't spend his first night back with Abigail, all his other nights were not going to be enjoyable. But for now, he sat. A bit later, Arthur spoke up.

"Look, I know that whatever story you told them is crap. You're a horrible liar John, much as you seem to think you aren't, and I could smell your guilt from here." John opened his mouth to deny it, to confirm it, to say something because this was not how he wanted Arthur to find out, he didn't even think he wanted Arthur to find out at all, but that's just how it'd always been with him, and-

"But," the man held up a hand as if to stall John's racing thoughts, "I'm not gonna make you tell me the truth. I've seen some unexplainable things in my time, John, just as I'm sure you have. And I understand that it might be hard to talk about. So don't. I ask only one thing now, John Marston," steely blue eyes met wide brown ones, "do not, under any circumstances, ever lie to me again, y'hear?" John nodded. He almost couldn't believe what he was telling him, but then again, this was Arthur. "Good." Was all he said, before dimming some of the lanterns and padding over to the makeshift bed and lying down, back to John. Guess that's that. He thought. He gazed at Arthur's steadily breathing form for a moment longer before getting up and quietly leaving the barn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oof, that ending. Am I going too fast? Also, do you think I should have shown more traveling and left the reunion for the next chapter? Idk, I just thought the story needed some action, and this was a good way to bring some in. Now, about the reunion, how was it? I'm super nervous about having to juggle so many different characters at once. What do you guys think about Arthur and John's first interaction? I was hoping to show how Arthur, like Abigail, had put John to rest and was now angry and confused. Basically, I was trying to show Arthur act like a man too emotionally constipated to realize or think through his feelings. Did it work? For the sake of the story, I've made John a bit more open with his feelings to balance out Arthur's stubbornness. Open, but really oblivious, so hopefully their characters will still work.**


	7. Chapter 7

When John woke up that morning, there was snow on the ground. He couldn't see it, but years of living outside civilization had taught him something. The air smelled different, there was chill in their bedroom that hadn't been there the night before, it was too bright for this time of morning, it all added up. It had been a month since he first arrived at the homestead. Arthur seemed to have moved into the barn permanently, while Uncle was on the couch, Laura in Jack's room, and Jack in the attic. Except for a bit of lingering resentment from Jack over taking the warmest room in the house besides the kitchen, Laura seemed to be settling in well. She and Abigail got along famously now, after his wife had fully ascertained that she was not, in fact, the other woman. He cooking skills were something to boast of, and that certainly had eased her way into their household. Uncle was still giving him grief over 'leaving.'

Sadie and Charles came by occasionally, Charles less so, but their old friends could see they were short enough on space as it was. Sadie had told them she was renting a room for the winter at the hotel in Blackwater, and had made something of a name for herself bounty hunting. She and Laura had become fast friends and whenever she came to visit, Sadie usually spent the entirety of it with or near Laura. It was an odd sight; coarse, nearly masculine, dangerous Sadie the bounty hunter with pretty, petite, God-fearing Laura. Charles was constantly on the move and so visited less often, though he promised to be near once winter broke to help with building the new bedroom.

They might have to build two, now that John thought about it, what with Laura being here and all. He was sure Arthur could probably spend the rest of his life without a roof over his head, but he didn't want him to. Arthur was part of his family now, whether he liked it or not. Arthur...

The man seemed to have forgiven John for his dying wish, but no more than that. He was still quiet, colder than the snow outside, and only interacted with the rest of them to help with chores, and rarely inside the house. Arthur made a point of waiting on the porch for dinner, now. It was as if John had unwittingly replaced him, a feeling he was thoroughly sick of. Whenever John tired to bring it up, Arthur would either get angry or say something like "You've got a second chance to be with your family, John." Which he thought was an odd choice of words, because he'd never mentioned the wolf. John was getting tired of it, but he didn't know how to break Arthur out. The man had never gotten this bad at camp, or if he had, John had never been around to help. Which was the whole problem, he supposed.

All this brooding was giving him a headache. John was better off acting than thinking, which was what he would do. He rolled out of bed, immediately regretting it when the cold air cut right through his underclothes. Abigail sighed from behind him. He reached over to rub her shoulder, then whispered,

"Gotta bring the sheep in, darlin'. I'll be back for breakfast."

Abigail had since forgiven him for dying, and things were well with her now. Better than they'd been at camp. He was also trying to take more of a role in Jack's life. John thought it amazing to see how the boy seemed bigger and smarter with every day, and wished he'd seen it before. He shook his head and smiled, then went to get ready.

With several layers on besides the coat he was to don later, John woke Jack up, then told him to wake Uncle up. Ten minuets later, he was sedately sipping his morning coffee when he heard an almighty shout from the main room. John was about to go and see what happened when Jack ran in, followed by Uncle, whose shirt was soaked. Jack was grinning like the cat who had gotten the cream while Uncle looked dramatically close to tears.

"What happened?"

"The little whelp dumped snow down my shirt, that's what happened!" Shouted Uncle. John looked at his son, who shrugged.

"He wouldn't wake up."

"I told you to give me a minute! My lumbago gets worse in the cold, you know that! John, you better give this boy a good hidin' before he tries to kill me!" Uncle protested loudly. John put on his best poker face, calmly walked to Jack, and stared down at him until he started to look nervous.

"Jack..." He warned.

"Y-Yes, sir?" John waited a moment, then started laughing.

"Well done, kid! You shoulda' told me; I woulda' helped!" Uncle gasped liked he was in the opera, then stomped off to grab his coat, complaining about today's youth the whole way. John hugged Jack, then sent him off. "Go apologize, you're gonna be riding with him today, and you know he'll be unbearable if you don't."

"I know, pa."

The six inches of snow on the ground had crusted over and crunched under his boots as John walked. He hadn't even been out here five minuets and he was already freezing. To top it off, it was starting to snow again. John glowered at the sky for a moment before opening the barn doors. Unsurprisingly, Arthur was already awake and checking the tack on his horse.

"How long have you been up?" John asked. Arthur didn't turn around.

"Few hours." He said. The sun's barely risen! It was a bit warmer in the barn, but not by much. John could still see his breath. Jesus, he thought. John could understand the horses sleeping out here, them being animals with fur coats and all, but Arthur? Doesn't the bastard know he can come inside any time he wants? John couldn't imagine sleeping out here, alone except for the horses, freezing his ass off every night. Both John's frustration at and admiration for Arthur grew as he thought. John shook his head and saddled New Girl.

"Y'know, Arthur-" John began, but was cut short as Uncle and Jack came in to grab their horses.

"Let's get this over with! My lumbago's actin' up something fierce in this weather." Uncle huffed, obviously excited at the idea of Laura's pancakes awaiting them.

"Uhm, Uncle, Jack, you take the south pasture." John tried not to show that he had no idea what he was doing. "Arthur, you're with me. We'll grab them from the west pasture." John didn't like telling Arthur what to do, even if Arthur listened to him. It just felt wrong. "Herd them into the corral. The barn should be enough of a windbreak for now."

The west pasture was five minuet's ride from the barn. Five miserable, hellish, life-sucking, spirit-destroying, traumatizing-

"You coulda' left the sheep to me, John." Arthur spoke up for the first time. John looked him, squinting at Arthur over the glare of the sun. "I know you hate the cold." Arthur wasn't looking at him, but he was talking. Arthur cared that he hated the cold?

"Plus, you can't herd to save your life." There it was. "Nah, couldn't let you have all the fun!"

Arthur was silent again after this, the only sound being the huffing of the horses and the crunching of the snow. John grasped for something to say before Arthur shook off whatever had gotten into him. "Y'know, Arthur-" he tried again.

"Hmm?" He said from his place ahead of John.

"-You always have a place here. Inside the house." He waited. Arthur didn't say anything, so John forged ahead. "I can't understand why ya sleep in the barn. It's cold as shit out there, and no matter how much ya try to tell me ya ain't, I know you're miserable out there."

"That's right. You don't understand anything, as usual. I'm gonna sleep in the barn 'til you have enough room in the house for me." Arthur's cryptic words were nearly lost in the wind that had kicked up. He was more of a mystery than ever.

"What?" John asked. Arthur didn't answer; he had gone ahead and was currently herding the flock back toward him. John tried to help, he really did, but Arthur was right, he couldn't herd to save his life.

Half an hour later, John, Jack, and Uncle were inside enjoying pancakes, courtesy of Laura. The weather had turned very quickly, and now a storm howled outside the window panes, first of the winter. "Ranchin' seems to suit you, John." Abigail told him as he worked on a pancake bigger than his hand.

"Mmf-" John shook his head and tried to swallow. "It was Arthur who did all the work."

"Then why isn't he in here with us? I've barely seen him since you arrived." His wife wondered. "Is he sulkin' again?"

"I guess... I don't know why he insists on stayin' out there, I told him he could come inside any time he wants." John frowned and paused, listening to the wailing outside. He looked back down at his breakfast, weighing his options.

"I'm stuffed," he declared, pushing back from the table and carrying his plate to the counter. "Good as always." He thanked Laura.

"Just good?" She teased. He gave her a smile, then took an extra plate and piled it with food. He covered it with another plate to keep it warm, then made his way back through the full kitchen.

"Gonna take this out to him," he explained to Abigail. She nodded, then went back to arguing with Jack on why he should clean his room.  
John fought his way through the storm and finally made it to the barn. Cradling the plate with one hand, he pushed the door open just wide enough to admit him, then hastily closed it again. Arthur looked up from brushing New Girl.

"Ya never take care of her, thought I should." He said, by way of explanation.

"Thanks. Hey, I brought ya some breakfast, pancakes, thought you might be hungry." He walked over to the stall and offered the plate to Arthur. He took it, though John didn't know why he thought he'd do any different.

"Suppose I should say thanks," Arthur put down the brush, and walked over to his corner. His journal was open, and John glimpsed the beginnings of a sketch before Arthur slammed the small book shut.

"You don't need to say thanks Arthur, you're family." John sat down in the corner, just like his first night back. The barn wasn't well insulated, and the rushing wind cut through the thin wooden slats like a razor, chilling John to the bone. He didn't know how Arthur could stand it. "Arthur-"

"Don't start with me. I'm tired of hearin' it. I'm gonna to stay out here 'til there's enough space or you kick me offa' your land, whichever comes first." The man was as stupid as a mule and twice as stubborn, in John's opinion.

"'Kick you offa' my land'? Arthur, you bought it! Speakin' of, I still need to pay you back for that." He wondered how he was going to do that.  
"You don't need to pay me back. I was given it, called in a favor from a friend. And you have every right to, the deed's in your name." Son of a... John thought. 'Favor from a friend'? First he's thankful, then tired, then self-sacrificing and self-deprecating, then forgiving...!

John turned to Arthur. "What's with you lately? Make up your goddamned mind! Are you mad at me or not?" John tried to fix this problem the only way he knew how: confronting it head-on. Arthur put down the half-finished plate with a clang that only illustrated the tension between them.

"I'm not angry at you." Was all he said, before getting up and walking to Buell's stall. Buell was a fiery golden warhorse who bit anyone who got too close, except for Arthur. John never did learn where he had gotten him. He barely had time to stand up before Arthur was leading Buell towards the doors. "I'm going hunting." In this weather? John said as much.

"Arthur, I know you ain't an idiot, look outside for Christssake!" John tried to stop him but Arthur ignored him, instead walking out into the storm.  
If John couldn't stop him, he'd have to go with him. He ran into the house, intending to grab his coat and rifle, but was stopped by Abigail, who had been watching from the front window.

"John, what is going on?" She asked suspiciously.

"With Arthur? No idea, but he's decided that now's a good time to go huntin', so I figured I'd better come along and stop him from killin' himself." John was buttoning up his coat when Abigail put her hand on his arm. He looked at her, confused.

"Leave him be. I think he needs to be alone right now." She told him, an odd look on her face. Why was everyone acting so different today?

"Alone time- Abigail, we've barely seen him since I came back! The last thing he needs is time alone!" He shouted. Why could no one understand this? Abigail looked at him. He looked through the window, saw Buell disappearing into the snow, and looked back at Abigail. He gave up.

"Fine! He can die out there then, if that's what he wants! See if I care!" John was feeling petulant and frustrated, like a child, some might say. He stomped off, leaving his wife to gaze after Arthur into the swirling snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I don't know about you, but I'm glad the chapters are finally getting longer. Hopefully it'll stay that way. Wow, the conversation between Arthur and John seems really stilted, and Abigail is like a robot to me. Plus, Laura seems 2-D and I need to keep reminding myself to give her development, which is hard because she's not really a main character. Oh well. I'm unsure if that's because I'm the writer, of if they actually are acting like that. Please speak up if you see something out of place with them or the setting, it helps me so much. Thank you!


	8. Chapter 8

Still feeling a bit of nameless anger and frustration, John walked down the hallway to his bedroom. It was past evening now, and Arthur wasn't back. The storm had mostly died down, and Arthur was a grown man, but still John was restless.

He wasn't tired, quite the opposite, which was why he going to his bedroom, where he knew Abigail would be. He just wanted to be distracted (which wasn't a very good reason to approach Abigail for), even if anything he did with Abigail nowadays just felt like going through the motions.

He could see the lantern flickering in the crack of the door, and as he got closer John heard quiet voices.

"-miss them so much." It was Laura. Her voice sounded strained but she wasn't crying.

"I know." That was Abigail. John paused in hallway, listening and feeling just a little guilty. "I left for the brothels when I was just fourteen, but I can still remember my family. Sometimes I wonder what they're doin', if they're still alive. I had a brother, you know." John hadn't known. She rarely spoke of her life before camp, and only when she was drunk. She didn't sound drunk now.

"It's just- sometimes... I'm glad that John rescued me from that man, and I'll always be grateful... but sometimes, oh Abigail, sometimes I wish I had just died with them!" Laura started sniffling, and John heard rustling cloth. He was taken aback, she had seemed so happy just this morning. Internally, John berated himself for being so oblivious. Of course she wished that! Wouldn't he? If everyone he knew and loved had been killed, if he had maybe been in Abigail or Laura's place, of course he would! What'a fool I am, he found himself thinking.

Had his obliviousness been the cause of Arthur's "hunting trip" too?

"I just get so lonely sometimes," she said through what must have been tears, though John didn't see them. "And I don't mean to insult you, you and John both have been wonderful hosts, but this isn't the house I grew up in."

"Well, if you'd like, you can sleep in here tonight. I'm sure John's not gonna mind." There was a hint of bitterness in Abigail's voice, though for the life of him John couldn't figure out what from.

All thoughts of a late night gone, he walked back down the hallway, grabbed a spare blanket and his coat, and went to the barn.

The next morning, chilled and slightly disgruntled, John stumbled into his house, where Laura was sewing, sitting in an armchair, eyes maybe a little red. Sewing was something she did often and well, but today it seemed like a sort of consolation.

"Mornin'," John greeted, steeping out of his boots and shaking excess straw from his clothes.

"Hello, Abigail made bacon if you're hungry." John nodded and followed the scent of burnt meat across the room. Neither decided to acknowledge the previous night.  
Uncle was sat at the table, urging a bottle of beer and fiddling with some sort of rock.

"Ain't it a little early to be drinkin', old man?" Uncle gave the stink eye to John's back as he piled brittle bacon and torched toast onto a plate. He turned back around and sat across from Uncle, the hard chair making his already sore back worse. "What's that you're messin' with?" He asked.

Uncle took a long, pointed swing of his beer before answering. "This, Mr. Marston, is a genuine Indian arrowhead!" He proudly flourished the small, pointed stone. John grabbed it, peered at it, and set it on the table, where it was promptly snatched back up by Uncle.

"That is a fake." He declared. "What snake didja buy this off of?" Uncle guffawed.

"O'course I known it's a fake, John. That's why I bought it! Wanted ta see if you realized it, too." He looked at Uncle questioningly. The older man sighed. "I knew it was a fake the moment I laid eyes on it. But John, that youngin' looked so much like Dutch used ta, fancy suit with hair all slicked back, preachin' and prancin' like Dutch did, I just couldn't resist." John huffed and absently stole a sip of Uncle's sour beer to wash down the bacon.

"That ain't no reason to waste money," but they both knew he didn't mean it. Although he didn't show it like not, Uncle was torn up over the gang, too. It had gotten really bad towards the end, but it was nice to have a living reminder of the good old days sometimes. That was part of the reason John hadn't kicked Uncle out. That, and John wasn't sure he could get rid of him even if he tried.

A day and a half later, and Arthur still wasn't back. John knew he could handle himself, but-

"I'm worried." He muttered, mostly to himself. Currently, he was working with Laura to catalogue the stores left in the cellar, to see if they needed anything before winter set in. Really, this was a woman's job, or even a child's, but Uncle was nowhere to be found, and Jack was helping Abigail with her reading. Since Arthur had first taught him, Jack had become a better reader than anyone on the ranch, and Abigail wanted to learn. Also, living at camp had mostly destroyed John's idea of gender roles. At camp, people did what needed doing, whether that meant Karen cleaning the guns or Hosea patching up clothing. And right now, the cellar needed cataloging.

"I can see that," Laura said from where she was counting potatoes. Abruptly, John stopped. She looked up, squinting at him in the dim light that came from above the steps.  
"I'm going to find him." He resolved, putting down the onion he had just been holding and standing up. He dusted the dirt from the bare floor off his pants. Next to him, Laura sighed. John didn't think Arthur was lost, really, maybe just needing some help. Arthur was more than capable, of course, but it was hunting. He should have been back already, sulking in the barn and helping with the sheep, even though John could do that just fine.

"I'll tell Abigail." His friend assured. He cast her a grateful look before climbing the stairs. From what John had seen, Arthur had headed north, towards the forests. It was a logical place to hunt, especially if he had wanted pelts to sell, but also one of the most dangerous. There were hungry animals up there, and John had heard tell of desperate gangs that sometimes hid out there. Gangs like the one he had once been a part of.

In record time, he had New Girl saddled and pointed that way. The storm had died sometime last night, leaving another four inches of snow and deadly calm. John was remembering his own experience with winter in the mountains. God, that was so many years ago. Things had been simpler back then, it was like Dutch had always told them: "We shoot fellars as need shooting, save fellers as need saving, and feed 'em as need feeding." He could hear his leader's voice, telling him that after he had saved John from the noose. He had saved John so many times, but he had left him for dead, too. Twice. He could never forgive that, but even knowing what he did, John would give nearly anything to go back to the good old days. Before Black Lung, before Blackwater, before he'd left. John would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

But now he'd gotten a second chance, just like he wanted, right? John had seen the wolf only once after he'd settled in Beecher's Hope. A few weeks after his return, he'd been unable to sleep. Drawn to the window, he'd looked out and seen it on the crest of the hill half-hidden in the grass, almost like it was watching over them. That wolf had given him a second chance, so why did life feel just the same? No matter how many chances he got, John still felt like nothing had changed. Somehow, he'd driven Arthur off yet again. And now here he was, plodding through the snow, freezing his ass off, hoping to get a clue.

John had been riding for over an hour now, and was under the towering pines. The crisp air bit at his nose, and a few bird calls echoed through the trees. The going was a bit easier here as the trees kept some of the snow off the ground, so he urged New Girl into a faster pace.

John resisted the instinct to call for Arthur. If the man was actually all right and hunting, he'd scare off prey, and if he wasn't all right, then... John didn't want to think about it anymore. Of course he'd be all right, he was Arthur, infamous outlaw and former right hand man of the feared Van der Linde Gang. John had no idea where he might be, however. If Arthur didn't want to be found, you wouldn't find him.

Eventually, John came to Manzanita Post, a tiny hunting town. There was a slim chance Arthur had passed through here, but it was the only lead he had, so John decided to try the general store first. New Girl slowed to a stop in the muddy slush at the hitching post as a train whistled loudly across the main thoroughfare.  
John was stiff with cold, but the shop was much warmer than it looked. "You see a man pass through here recently, rough-lookin', light-haired?" John asked the shopkeeper hopefully. He had been restocking under the counter, but straightened up to answer.

"Son, we see a lotta men 'pass through here' regularly matchin' that description. You're gonna have ta be more specific." He explained with a glint in his eye. John knew it well. He sighed through his nose and rummaged in his satchel, finally coming up with a few dollars. It was this or threaten the man, and John didn't feel like causing trouble if he ever wanted to hear the end of it from Abigail. Slowly, he slid the money over to him.

"This specific enough?" John groused. The shopkeeper smiled, showing yellow teeth.

"Ah, yes. Did the man you're looking for have a big golden devil of a horse?" John nodded, finally he was getting somewhere. "Well, he came in here yesterday, bought a few things then left. Saw 'im walk across to the station and take the bounty posted there."

"Who was the bounty for?" John interrogated. He really hoped he wouldn't have to pay up any more. His informant grunted.

"A fella by the name o' Timothy James. Has a hideout west of here, at a place called Rowe's Cave. Real mean, his poster's been up for months. 'Fraid you're gonna find a corpse rather than your friend, if he went up there alone." The shopkeeper chuckled darkly. _Goddamnit, Arthur! When you said 'hunting' I thought you meant animals!_  
Had Arthur even asked Sadie to come with him? John feared not. Quickly, and without saying goodbye, he walked out of the store and mounted New Girl. "Rowe's Cave, west." John muttered under his breath as he trotted out of the surprisingly busy town, then broke into a gallop. Taking on a gang, alone, in the middle of winter! Is he trying to get himself killed? John asked himself. Arthur was never one to go in unprepared. Whenever he took on a risky job, he'd usually ask at least one other member for help. Why hadn't he this time, if taking down a dangerous bounty had been his plan all along? The pines rushed past, the cold wind biting at his face and making his eyes stream and New Girl's laborious breath steamed in the air. He couldn't slow down.

After another half hour's ride, John spotted a cave tucked into the side of the mountain ahead. Through the pines, a fire flickered out front with a few rough-looking men packed tightly around it. Lookouts. He should've guessed James would have a gang.

He didn't know what this Timothy James looked liked. Arthur must be in the cave, and the men out here all had the whipped-dog look to them that marked them as lackeys. Quietly, John dismounted, took his repeater and shotgun from the saddle, and told New Girl to flee. She would come back once he called. He hid behind a tree and checked his pistols, then shouldered his repeater.

John could hear the men talking amongst themselves, and caught a bit of their conversation on the wind.

"-doesn't matter. My money's on the prisoner. He still looks mean enough to spit venom." One said. Another elbowed him.

"I'd shut up if I was you. If 'ole Timmy hears ya jawin' like that, you'll be out here for rest o' the night." He warned.

While they were talking, John had been sneaking silently closer. They'd all gone silent, so of course now he stepped on a branch.

"Who's out there?" The first one shouted. "Show yourself!"

John stepped out from the tree line, guns in both hands but arms up. "Hello, gentlemen." He smirked, showing all his teeth. They were shocked into silence. Before they could recover, John started shooting. Bullets spraying faster than blood, he nearly danced through the small group, then rolled behind a crate as more streamed from the cave. As he methodically shot, dodged, and killed, turning the hard ground red in his wake, John realized that he'd missed this. The adrenaline, the rush of taking someone's life. The power, knowing that you're the one making the decision to send someone to their maker. He hadn't craved it, exactly, but he couldn't stop a vicious grin from splitting his face. Cold-blooded killing to defenseless and undeserving folks, that he despised, but this- these were bad men, and they fought back. So, while the minuets masqueraded as hours and seconds, John enjoyed himself.

Before he realized it, the shootout was over. He took a deep breath of the chill air, and except for the panicked whinnying of the fleeing horses, it was so quiet you could almost hear the snow falling. John crept into the cave, wary of any other enemies and completely unaware of the wolf watching from the trees, bleeding from a gash in its right shoulder.

Rowe's Cave was small, just a central space lit up by lanterns with a crack in one side that led to a smaller and much darker antechamber.

"Hello?" A faint call echoed weirdly. _That must be Arthur,_ John realized.

He was sitting in a cramped metal cage the size of a broom closet, and was looking up when John came in. He ran to the cage and shot the lock. Arthur was badly bruised and bleeding from several cuts. He was also shirtless, bootless, and shivering, but other than that, he seemed okay.

"John." Arthur croaked. Water. He handed his canteen to the man, glad he'd filled it with snowmelt and not whiskey this time.

"John," he said again, it was all he seemed to be able to say. Arthur's voice was still strangled, but smoother now and he didn't seem to be on the verge of passing out. He was also still shivering. These were all good signs.

John looked at him questioningly. "You're bleeding." He said, and pointed to John's right shoulder. He was right, a bullet must have grazed him during the fight. He wasn't surprised, this had happened before many times. Mr. Strauss once told him it was because of adrenaline that he never noticed until after.

"I'll be fine." He looked back at Arthur, feeling the grip of a sudden rage. "You're the one who was bein' tortured, worry about yourself for once!" John snapped. He was angry, of course he was, who wouldn't be in his place? "Speakin' of, why in God's name didn't you take someone with you?!" He asked as he wrapped his coat (too small) and then an arm around Arthur and led him out of the cave, gathering Arthur's things as he found them. "If you wanted to go bounty huntin' that bad, you coulda' just asked me or Sadie!" A few birds chattered angrily at the noise. He whistled for New Girl, and she came trotting out of the snow a few minuets later, picking her way over the bodies still lying there. Once Arthur was on the saddle and holding weakly onto his waist, John continued his rant, venting weeks' worth of frustration as New Girl walked back to Manzanita Post.

"And where's Buell? Lose your horse and your mind?" John didn't give him time to answer. "Goddamnit, Arthur, you always do this! You get it in your head that somebody needs somethin', or you're moody for no reason, and then you get yourself hurt doin' whatever it is that nobody asked you to do, and then when we try to help you, you get all high an' mighty sayin' that oh, I'm alright, or no, don't need any help, or get back to your family, John, and end up hurtin' yourself even worse! And it just- it just makes me so fuckin' frustrated because ya can't ever seem to see past your own self far enough ta realize that you've got a family! And family means we rely on each other! Arthur, this ain't Dutch's gang no more, Dutch's gone. I saw him turn tail myself, and none o' us have heard anything 'bout him or Micah since then! You aren't the 'errand boy' or workhorse or whatever anymore, so stop actin' like it, goddamnit!"

John was out of breath by the end of his rant. The cool, quiet environment of the snowy evening forest countered the burnt-out anger he felt inside. He wondered if Arthur was going to say anything or if, for once, he'd bested him in an argument. Weren't much of an argument, he thought to himself.  
After a few minuets Arthur spoke up. From just behind his left ear, so quiet it was nearly drowned out by the steady crunch, crunch of New Girl's hooves in the snow, he heard,

"Thank you."

John truly didn't know what to say to that. So, he said nothing, gave no sign he'd even heard it. Instead they rode slowly on through the darkening woods.  
It was fully dark, cold as all get out, and John's shoulder was really starting to make itself known once they finally reached Manzanita Post. For the second time that day, John hitched New Girl outside the general store, leaving Arthur outside only because he knew it'd be faster. The shopkeeper seemed surprised to him again, and looked out the window to his horse.

"Rescued yer friend, eh? Didn't expect ta see ya 'round again if ya went after Timothy. Well, good on ya, I s'pose." He shrugged, and continued polishing the counter.

"Look, mister, my friend's hurt, is there anywhere we can stay for tonight?" John hadn't seen a hotel, but it was worth a try. He wanted to get this over with as fast as possible, seeing as Arthur was still out there in the cold, barely able to stay on New Girl. The shopkeeper looked back up him with the same wicked gleam in his eye as last time.

"If yer friend's hurt, you'll be wantin' the doctor, I reckon. But there is a cabin ya can purchase too, north end o' town." John sighed and pulled out his satchel.

"How much?"

"Four hundred." John's eyes widened a fraction and he looked around the deserted shop, then calmly he took out his pistol and laid it on the counter, hand over the butt.

"Two hundred."

The shopkeeper scowled and nodded, but he didn't raise the alarm. Satisfied, John took out the money and handed it over, refusing to think about Abigail's scowling face. Quickly, the other man snatched it up, counted it, slapped a small key down, then said sullenly, "It's yours." John holstered his pistol and walked out, key in hand.

Thankfully, the cabin was right where he was told it'd be. Arthur was looking weaker, he must've been much worse than he'd let on. Figures. Hurriedly, John helped him off New Girl and walked him over to the small hide-covered bed in the corner of the room, then went to gather wood from the pile around back.

Once the fire was started, he got to work on Arthur. First, checked Arthur over for any wounds he might've missed in the cave. Besides the bruising and initial cuts, he had a gash on the back of his head that was scabbed over and what John guessed was a cracked rib or two. He cleaned out the cuts using snow from outside ("Damnit John, couldn't ya have at least heated it up first?") and bandaged the rib with some cloth he'd found in his satchel. Once they got back to Beecher's Hope, he would get a doctor. John tried to make the quickly fading Arthur as comfortable as possible, arranging the pillows, pulling the blankets up to his chin and coaxing him to drink some water. Abigail would've been able to do better; John had never really had too much of a bedside manner.

On the bright side, none of his cuts looked infected and Arthur didn't seem to have a fever. John decided he'd try to move Arthur the day after tomorrow. Once he was set up, John cleaned and bandaged his own shoulder which had mostly clotted up but still hurt like a son of a bitch. Exhausted from the day, he collapsed in a rickety wooden chair that had been propped in the corner near the wood stove. He needed to bring in more wood, but John supposed that could wait a few minuets. He took in his surroundings; wood stove against one wall, a bit of counter and some cupboards adjacent to that. Across from him, the small one-man cot that Arthur slept in. It's good to have him back, he thought.

Arthur looked so... at peace, sleeping like that. The deep lines etched into his face eased for once, and the tension his shoulders normally carried drained out. John had seen Arthur asleep before, of course. Privacy of any sort was unheard of in camp, but he'd never really observed him like this before. John was struck the the sudden urge to preserve the moment, if only to look back on it in the future and feel the same peace he felt now. Is that why Arthur was always writing and drawing in that journal of his? To preserve memories? In all his long years as a part of the gang, he'd never seen the man without it.

John could barely read and he was no good at describing things or telling stories. He couldn't draw, either. Even so, John tried to remember the scene in front of him as best he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ya'll I'm starting to get kind of unsure about where this fic is going and how I'm going to get it there. Should I kill a bunch of characters? Do a massive time skip? I really don't know. Any help/suggestions you could give me would be very much appreciated.**


	9. Chapter 9

John awoke with the birds chirping and a crick in his neck. Light from a small window illuminated the room, deflecting brightly against the snow outside. He must've fallen asleep in the chair last night. He reasoned it was as good a spot as any, seeing how Arthur was in the bed. The man was still asleep, and John was glad to see he'd gotten most of his color back. Slowly, achingly, he stood and stretched then went to make some coffee.

John nearly dropped his tin mug when he turned around. Arthur was awake, sitting up and staring straight at him. His bright blue eyes, sharp and intent as a bird's, were focused on him, watching him startle.

"Jesus, Arthur! Warn a man next time, will ya?" He reprimanded. Arthur looked away, and it felt like being taken out of the sun's glare.

"Make enough for both of us?" Were the first words out of his mouth. John sighed and scrounged up another mug from the scant pantry. He liked his black, but a lifetime of living with Arthur had shown him he took his with a little bit of sugar.

"You're welcome. No trouble for me at all, riding out in the middle o' winter and savin' you from the bad guys like you're a fuckin' fairytale princess. No thanks necessary." John handed Arthur a cup of black coffee. Ruefully, he accepted it.

"I said my thanks already. Did you hear me, or were your teeth chatterin' too much?" He shot back between grimaced sips. John had perched on the table, preferring it over the chair, but now he stood and stormed out, right into the biting wind neither of them had noticed blowing in. Without his coat. Or, for that matter, his boots. Rather than try to dignify his stupidity with words, he silently stormed back in, roughly pulled his overcoat and shoes on, picked up his mug, and stormed right back out again, slamming the door on Arthur's snickering.

John found a sheltered spot on the leeward side of the house and sank into a crouch. As he watched the snow drift down in tiny flakes and sipped his coffee. He closed his eyes for a minuet and tried not shiver. He knew it was stupid, stomping in and out like that. Arthur was probably laughing at him from inside the warm cabin. He knew it, but even so, his temper had gotten the best of him once again. Now, he was stuck out here until the cold wore him down enough to sulk back in like moody adolescent. Abigail always had said he had less sense than two pennies rubbed together... A sound drew him out of his thoughts and snapped his eyes open. The crunch of snow. Panting, and the animal licking of lips. It was the wolf, larger than life with its midnight coat making it seem like a hole in the fabric of the world. John relaxed again.

"Haven't seen you in a while," he told it conversationally. It barely gave him a glance as it came over, limping slightly, and laid against the cabin wall, just a foot or two away from him. Now that he could see it better, John realized that it had a gash on its right shoulder, just like him. The fur around it was matted with gore and a bit of blood was seeping out. His own shoulder ached in unison. "What scratched you up so bad, huh?" The cut looked just as painful as his plus twice as dirty, and John debated trying to clean it out. He had some liquor in his saddlebag, but wasn't sure if the wolf would know he was trying to help. He had no desire to be attacked again. John looked into its flinty amber eyes and told it,

"I'm going to help you. It'll hurt at first, but don't get any ideas or I'll put you down." With his pistol at his hip, he had no qualms about ending the animal's life if it came down to him or it, he just hoped doing wouldn't have any lasting consequences. John had no idea if it understood, but he rose to go get the alcohol from a New Girl anyway.  
Cautiously, he approached it, holding a hand out in front of him as if to steady a startled horse. It continued to stare at him, making no move once he put his hand on its shoulder near the wound. Gingerly, he opened the bottle, glanced at the wolf again, and splashed some of the liquid onto the cut. Immediately, the wolf yelped loudly, nipped at his hand, and started licking at the cut. John yelped too, because at the exact moment he'd cleaned the wound, his own shoulder started stinging. Thankfully, the animal hadn't attacked him, but it was now eyeing him warily between licks. Ever so slowly, he again reached out, this time putting pressure on the area near the gash. The wolf growled lowly at him, and he felt like doing the same as he felt his own shoulder throb at the unseen pressure. Quickly, he withdrew his hand.

"Son of a bitch..." John muttered. The wolf was still glaring at him, so he stood up and backed off to a safe distance. Glad I didn't shoot it, he thought. The unexpected vulnerability had shaken him. If this thing dies, then so do I, John realized. His first urge was to somehow keep it safe in the barn, but the plan was half-baked at best, and this thing was a wild animal. It would not cooperate, and it was a wonder it hadn't eaten him already. As much as he hated to do so, he would have to let it go and hope for the best. He looked at it, it looked at him, and John stomped off once again.

He put the liquor back into New Girl's saddlebag and took a moment to decide what to do next. He'd been too caught up with the wolf earlier, but now with nothing occupying him, John realized just how cold he was. He shivered convulsively and New Girl snorted at him in annoyance. He'd have to go back inside sooner or later, lest he die out here. Almost preferable to facing Arthur again. His teeth started chattering as the wind picked up. Almost.

Arthur looked up when John slammed the door behind himself. He just smirked, shook his head, and went back to writing in his journal. John fumed silently but for once decided this was a fight he didn't need. Otherwise, he'd just end up back outside. I'd hate to be that wolf, alone out there in the cold, doomed to follow some poor bastard around for the rest of my life. In all his many years, John never thought he'd be sympathetic towards something that had scarred him so viciously. A distant rumble pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Storm's comin'," he surmised.

"That was my stomach, ya idiot. I'm hungry." Arthur retorted from where he was laid up in bed. John was too, he realized belatedly. He wasn't being a very good nursemaid, was he? Head ducked, he went to find some breakfast.

Nothing fresh, but there were a few cans of food he was able to heat up and serve. Definitely not the best meal he'd ever made, (and that wasn't saying much) but it would do until they could get back to Beecher's Hope. After he'd cleaned up, Arthur decided he'd had enough of bed rest.

The bed creaked, and John abandoned his task of polishing his gun to look over. Arthur had stood up. He sighed. Getting a restless Arthur back in bed was going to be a difficult task, and John was already exasperated.

"What are you doing?" He asked, realizing too late how stupid that question must have made him sound to the other man.

"What does it look like?" Was his reply as he started reaching towards his clothes, which were folded and stacked on the foot of the bed. John snatched the clothes away and held them behind his back, trying his damndest not to look like a child hiding a cookie. Slowly, Arthur turned to face him with raised eyebrows and sized him up.

"You ain't done healing yet!" He tried to object, braced for a hit.

"Well, if it isn't the pot calling the kettle black! I've seen you up an' about riddled with so many bullets, you're more lead than man, so thank you kindly for the suggestion, but I can take care of myself." He reached out a hand, and John flinched ever so slightly at the sudden movement. "Give me my clothes, John." He did not sound amused.  
John dodged the grabbing hand and sprinted out the door. He didn't know what drove him to do that, maybe some long-buried memories of him and Arthur wrestling in the snow, back when they were just boys. Thankfully, he hadn't taken off his boots, but he was coatless and the wind immediately cut through the thin leather vest he always wore. However, he was still clutching the clothes; a small victory. Not a minute later, Arthur came out, looking absolutely ridiculous with shoes and coat over his underclothes.

"John Marston!" He scolded loudly, scaring off a few birds. He stood in the doorway looking comically undecided. John quick-stepped through the snow, trying not to fall over laughing at the the sight. His mind made up, Arthur sprinted towards him, moving surprisingly quickly for someone who'd been bed-bound not five minuets before. John yelped and tried to turn, but hit a patch of ice and slipped instead, landing on his bad shoulder. He fell in such a way that he inadvertently dodged Arthur's flying tackle, leaving them lying in the snow dazed and groaning.

John had busied himself trying to get up without slipping again and didn't notice that Arthur had snuck up behind him with a handful of snow and a wicked gleam in his eye. Seconds later, curses filled the forest.

John turned, still crouched, and bowled over Arthur, pinning the larger man by his broad shoulders. He still had that smile, completely unfazed by the turn of events. John leaned forward, close enough to count each freckle on Arthur's weathered face. They looked at each other in a moment of sudden silence, John glaring with indignation and Arthur staring with an unnameable curiosity and abandon. But the moment, charged with an unfamiliar tension, passed as quickly as it had come. Arthur took advantage, snatching the pile of clothes from where they'd landed nearby and easily rolling out from under him.

"Childish as usual," Arthur groused. John stood up and brushed himself off, the playful atmosphere fading faster than the light at sunset.

"Could say the same about you, shoving snow down my shirt like we was kids again." John remembered their winter antics now. Short December months full of snow fights and warm coffee, before Hosea's cough got too bad and Dutch still had his humor.

"Yeah well, we ain't kids no more, so I'm goin' inside." John couldn't remember the last time they had spoken like this; it must've been before he died, certainly. Arthur had been in a mood ever since John returned, and now he'd finally seemed to snap out of it. John was glad.

"You take the bed tonight." Arthur's tone brokered no argument, but when had that ever stopped John? It was just after dinner, the sun having set about an hour ago, and Arthur's chivalrous spirit was, once again, the cause of dissent.

"You were tortured!" After last night, he was not looking forward to sleeping in that chair again, but at the same time he couldn't let Arthur. John planned to ride back to Beecher's Hope tomorrow and right now, he just wanted to sleep. It's hadn't been a particularly long day, but he'd take the floor, just so long long as he could get some shut-eye.

"What's your point? I'm fine! And you know it, else you wouldn't have run off with my clothes like a wild dog!" He didn't want to admit it, but he was right. Deep down, John knew he was healed. Even so, that didn't mean he was going to get to sleep in the chair.

John walked to the contested seat and settled down in it, effectively ending the argument. He pulled his hat over his face, blocking out the lamplight, and crossed his legs.

"'Night." He muttered, foolishly letting his eyes drift closed.

"Oh no you don't!" The floor tilted beneath him and his hat flew off his head as Arthur yanked him by the arm and tossed him onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. He was again reminded of Arthur's strength. Slightly dazed, he sat up just as Arthur sat down. Looking like the cat with the cream, he yawned, then echoed, "'Night."

From his place on the (considerably softer) bed, John huffed. Why couldn't things just be simple with them? Even in his earliest memories of Arthur, they were fighting. Arthur, dumping him into a river, knowing full well he couldn't swim. John, starting a fistfight with him knowing full well he wouldn't win, just because he wanted something to do. Arthur, who wouldn't stop teasing him over the first time he was bucked off a horse.

Although those memories were tainted with anger, John looked back on them now with happiness. He realized that, after all these years, that was just how they communicated. That's why it felt so odd to him when Arthur wouldn't speak, would storm off at the slightest provocation. But now, they seemed to be better. Their petty fights were just that- petty fights. Both knew that as long as they were fighting, they were friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Was that too much? I wanted this chapter to focus more on their growing relationship, but I'm worried that there's too much narration and hinting. I still don't know how to proceed. What I think will happen is: Arthur and John will get back to Beecher's Hope, and then I might do a sort of time skip-montage to fast-forward to the part where things really start to heat up. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to stay true to how John dealt with Bill and Javier and Dutch in canon, or if I'll do something else. Hmm. As always, I'm open for suggestions/criticism.**


	10. Chapter 10

John woke up first, he usually did. He could never sleep long, even if he wanted to. Cozy in the furs, he kept his eyes closed and let the sound of the morning wash over him, wanting to go back to sleep but knowing it was impossible. Birds chirping, horses whinnying, all of it strangely muted because of the snow. And Arthur's breathing, the slight snuffling and sighing that happened whenever he was fully out.

John opened his eyes. The room was the hazy golden of early morning, streaming in through the panes. _Abigail'll be wonderin' where I am,_ he thought. _Better start soon._ Sighing, he swung his legs out of bed and got dressed. Careful not to wake Arthur, though rhe man could sleep through a shootout if he wanted to, John stoked the fire in the wood stove and put the coffee on, leaving it to boil while he went to check on New Girl.

Once she was taken care of, John came back inside. He was surprised to see Arthur up, dressed and sitting on the bed nursing a cup of coffee. "Mornin'," he grunted.

"Mornin'. How'd the chair feel?" John asked, smug as ever.

"Just fine. I'm guessin' we're headin' back today?" He asked.

"'Less you got somethin' better to do," he replied. He was anxious to see Abigail again, to make sure that her and Laura and Jack (and even Uncle, he supposed) were safe. He was also anticipating the chewing-out his wife would give Arthur.

Five minuets later, John was locking the door. He doubted that the basic lock would be able to keep a determined squatter out, but he wasn't too worried.

"Where's your horse?" He asked Arthur, who was standing near New Girl. He wasn't envious of riding several hours with a cracked rib. Arthur looked around, then whistled. John wanted to scoff. Surely Buell didn't have that good of hearing. Not a minuet later, he trotted out of the trees, sun shining off his golden coat. _Never underestimate Arthur and his horse,_ he thought. They both mounted and set off.

John wanted to ask Arthur why he had ridden off like that. For once, they weren't in dire need of food or money, so it couldn't have been his hero complex. What, then? He remembered Arthur often riding off on his own and not returning for days at a time, often with little more than "I'll be back," so maybe he shouldn't have worried. But somehow, this time just felt different. To be truthful, it felt like Arthur was trying to run from something. It was possible, but John didn't know Arthur as the type to run if he could fight. He hoped that whatever was troubling him, Arthur would come to them if he needed help. But John doubted that he would.

He sighed into the frosty air. They were just getting out of the forest, Arthur riding to the right and a little ahead of John. He appreciated New Girl, but she just couldn't measure up to a big war horse like Buell. He missed Old Boy.

"What?" Arthur asked from up ahead. John was surprised at his willingness to talk. Again, he was reminded of the old days. Arthur could always tell when something was on his mind, or maybe he was just bad at hiding his emotions from the other man.

"Nothin'," now that the opportunity to talk had presented itself, John clammed up.

Arthur waited.

"It's just- why'd you decide to go 'hunting' now of all times? We don't need food, we don't need money. You did this at camp, too. Just up an' left. And you always brought back somethin', and I'm not tryna' say you can't have your freedom, but-"

"John." Arthur had slowed his horse, and was now riding alongside him. Even though John had rescued him and they were just going back to the house, John felt like he was just tagging along on Arthur's latest mission. In short, he felt a bit like a child. Somehow, this always happened. John looked at Arthur, who was staring ahead.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Hours and several pieces of dried venison later, John tumbled into the house, numb and shivering. Arthur stood awkwardly on the porch behind him, filling up the door frame. He had to be cold, and aching besides, but you couldn't tell that from his face.

As they had neared Beecher's Hope, John had slowly convinced Arthur that he ought to go inside, at least for dinner. He was a part of the family, too, whether he liked it or not.

"Come in!" Abigail yelled from the kitchen. "And shut the door behind you!" John hazarded a silent guess that it was Laura cooking tonight, based off the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen.

"John! Ya found Arthur!" Uncle exclaimed from where he was sitting onion the couch, whittling a piece of wood and getting shavings all over the floor.

"I did," he replied, just a bit proud of himself.

"Uncle Arthur!" Jack stood up and walked over. He had been reading a book in the chair adjacent.

By now, Arthur had stepped inside and hung his coat next to John's on the hangar. "How're you, Jack?" He asked.

"I'm alright. Laura's cooking shepherd's pie!" He said.

"Mmm," hummed Arthur. He still seemed a bit out of place, but John was glad Arthur was here.

"Dinner's ready!" Came the call from the kitchen. Despite his lumbago, Uncle was still first in line for a piece. Unsurprisingly, Arthur was last. Laura, Abigail and Jack squeezed into the little table and the men leaned against the counters. The kitchen was warm and bright, a contrast from the bitter outside.

Towards the end of dinner, Laura started telling stories from her childhood, something she had never done before.  
"I remember when I broke my arm," she started. "Somehow, I had gotten it into my head that if I flapped my arms high enough, I could fly." They all chuckled. "Of course, that didn't work on the ground, so I climbed the porch, closed my eyes, and jumped! Oh, papa was so mad..." She smiled, and if her eyes were a little glossy with memories, no one mentioned it.

They continued talking well into the night. Seconds were had, then thirds, then nips of whiskey. Even Arthur told a few stories from back in the day. And as the night got deeper and the atmosphere warmer, John felt something he hadn't in years. Family.

One quiet year passed, then another. Jack kept growing, faster than John would have thought possible. He was a good boy, knew more from those books of his than anyone on the ranch. Abigail learned to read from him, and now whatever extra money they had went to books. They finally got the other room built, and Arthur started spending a bit more time in the house. Jack seemed to really look up to him, more so than John, and he was okay with that.

Uncle died the second year, in his sleep. It was more than anyone could have hoped for in the old life, at least. He was buried up on the hill overlooking the house, right under the tree he had loved to nap at. They all felt his loss keenly, even Laura. She had grown to like him in their short time of acquaintance. Abigail sent letters to all the surviving members she had the addresses of, and Sadie and Charles both stayed for two weeks after the funeral.

Even though he might not have shown it, John had loved the old man like, well, an uncle. The days following his death were too quiet and John kept expecting him to stumble through the door, drunk as a skunk, at any minuet. Arthur got distant after the funeral. He gave the extra bedroom to Sadie and slept in the barn with Charles. He had known Uncle for longer than anyone there and John often saw him sitting near the tree, sketchbook in hand. John tried to talk to him about Uncle once, maybe reminisce, during a ride into Blackwater for supplies. Arthur snapped at him like an angry badger and rode hard the rest of the way.

Another year passed. That winter was especially hard, and John lost half the flock to a pack of starving wolves. He would've lost all of it had it not been for Arthur. He had waited for two hours in the snow to ambush them and came back covered in scratches. John didn't think about how his heart wanted to seize when he saw Arthur stumble in the door late that evening.

Speaking of wolves, John started seeing his less and less. It wasn't in the pack that took the sheep, thank God, but that begged the question: where was it? He hadn't died yet, so he assumed it was still alive. Sometimes, he'd wake up with an odd bruise or cut he didn't remember getting, so it must still be out there somewhere. John thought about tracking it down, but he didn't like his odds against a lone wolf who probably didn't want to be found. Besides, the less people to see it, the less people who could kill it. But the winter passed, and spring banished all thoughts unrelated to the farm from John's mind.

He was getting gradually better at ranching, and the flock had grown to include a few goats to replace the ones he'd lost. Arthur still teased him mercilessly about his herding techniques, and John still couldn't go near the ewes when they were in labor, but he liked to think he was getting better. Abigail had gotten a small garden started with the help of Laura, too. Every night now she could be heard telling him and Arthur to eat their vegetables.

Now that winter was over for the year, Beecher's Hope started to see more visitors. Charles usually came over once a month, but Sadie had been spending an increased amount of time at the ranch, usually helping Laura with chores about the farm. It was a sight to see rough, nearly masculine Sadie kneeling in the dirt next to quiet, petite Laura and helping her weed. She was now a well known bounty hunter (under an alias), and the sheriff of Blackwater would often come to her with requests. She was now short a right pinky finger (she ended up bringing in that particular bounty dead) but had gained a whole lot of experience and repute. Charles still hadn't settled down, and John thought he might never. Whenever he came to visit, he always entertained Jack (who wasn't so little anymore) with stories and tricks he'd learned. Arthur would talk with him late into the night. He'd always been better friends with Charles than John had.

Things were going well, and yet another year had passed. Jack was learning to ride on Uncle's old nag, but New Girl was with foal and John was hoping to give it to Jack once it was born. Buell was getting old now, though he still had as much fire as ever. Money wasn't as tight as it usually was, so John convinced Arthur to go to the stables and get a new horse. He picked out a devilish young bay Mustang, cheap only because the stable master had given up on training it. They ponied it along a long-suffering New Girl, and Arthur got to work.

It took Arthur two moths to train it. He would go out there every day, rain or shine, and take every nip and bruise it gave him. He was thrown five times, and stepped on three times. He named it Sampson.

One late spring day, John needed to go into Blackwater for some supplies, and left Arthur to his chore of mending the fence. Abigail was getting an early start on the garden, Laura was mending clothes, and Jack was out riding the nag. John took the cart and the draft they had purchased to pull it, and went into town.  
When he got back as the sun was coming down, everyone except Arthur had been taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy late Thanksgiving y'all! Before anything else, I want to notify you guys of a new thing I have coming out. It'll be a collection of Christmas/Yule/Winter-flavored one-shots and drabbles for various ships. I'll be doing a lot of writing and updating on that, so I probably won't get much time to work on this story.   
Back to your regular end notes: things are going faster now! I hope that wasn't too big of a time jump and I hope that was a good cliffhanger. For those of you who are wondering, the year is now (the next chapter will take place in) 1910 (because timeskips!!). John and Abigail never officially got married. I've looked at the fandom Wiki and according to it, Jack would be 25 in 1910, which shouldn't be right but my quick math says it is. So in order to avoid that, he'll be born in 1895, so that in 1910 he'll be 15. Please tell me if any of this is wrong. Arthur is 47, which should make John 37. Abigail is four years younger, so she's 33. I'm saying that Laura is 27, born in 1883. The Wiki never said when either Charles or Sadie were born, so I'll say that Charles is 42 and Sadie is 35, born 1868 and 1875 respectively. Geez, that's a lot of math. Too much math for a writing project. Oh well, feel free to fact check me on all of this. Also, The Pinkerton agency won't be looking for Charles or Sadie because they've both gone into hiding. Okay, if you've read this far, thank you. I want to tell you that I'm losing faith in this story. I am wildly unsure of where it's going or how (or if) I'll diverge from canon. The characters seem like robots to me, and I hate my writing style. However, if you've read this far, it means that you're probably enjoying my story, so thanks for that. I'll try my best to keep plugging along.


	11. Chapter 11

The farm was quiet save for the far-off bleating of sheep and goats. He guessed that wasn't too odd, seeing as how the sun had nearly set. John thought nothing of it as he put the cart and horse away. But after that was done, he started noticing things in the dying light as he got closer to the house.

The lights were all off and it still seemed deserted.

There were many tracks on the dusty ground, too many for just his family to have made.

The garden was trampled.

There was a splash of blood on the porch stairs.

"Arthur! Abigail! Jack, Laura! Somebody!" John was shouting as he hurriedly opened the door, one hand on his pistol. The living room was empty. John was about to shout again when he heard a muffled groan come from the kitchen. Fearing what he might find, John ran down the hall.

It was Arthur, hogtied and gagged at the foot of the wood stove. He was awake, but only barely. A large gash marred his left arm and his face was covered in bruises. One eye was swollen shut, and blood from a busted lip had partially stained the dirty rag shoved into his mouth.

"Arthur!" John couldn't say how glad he was to see him. He ran over and cut the rope binding him. Slowly, Arthur sat up and took the gag from his mouth, flexing his wrists and ankles. "What happened? Are they dead? Christ, if they're dead-" John was babbling and his heart was pounding. Someone took his family. Arthur stopped him with a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"John. Look at me." John looked at him, fear in his eyes. "Stop talkin'." He stopped talking. Arthur took a breath and rubbed his jaw. It was mostly dark now, but John could still see the blood on his lip glistening.

"We was ambushed. They must'a been watchin' the house for a little while, at least. Five of them came up the lane and another twenty from outside the fences, all on horseback. Pinkerton Agents Ross and Milton, said they was on a mission." John remembered them. Ghost from the past come to haunt him, it seemed. "Wanted you and me to hunt down Bill and Javier and Dutch." John's eyes went wide.

"John," Arthur said, "as much as you might think otherwise, I don't want to leave the place. I don't want to hunt down my brothers." John nodded. He could understand this. "So I told them no, and you can guess how they took that. They said that we needed an 'incentive' to do their dirty work. They took them, John, all of 'em." Arthur looked down at his hands, dirty and bruised at the knuckles. "I couldn't stop them," he said hoarsely. "They all rushed me and I-I shoulda' done better." He couldn't see much of Arthur's face anymore, but he could hear the sadness in his voice.

"We'll get them back," he promised. "We won't stop until we get them back."

That night, they both bedded down in the barn. Arthur is his usual pile of hay, and John wrapped in blankets in the corner. They made plans for tomorrow. John would go into Blackwater to sell the animals and send a letter to Sadie and Charles, telling them what had happened and asking them to check on the farm every so often. They didn't plan on coming back soon.

Neither John nor Arthur could sleep that night. John lay awake in the hay, listening to Arthur do the same thing. John didn't think he could sleep, after what had happened. He didn't think he wanted to. He'd been foolish enough to think that he had finally escaped the life, and look what that had brought him. He'd had a family he loved and a rewarding job, all suddenly taken away from him. _I guess that's what happened to those poor bastards we used to rob,_ he realized. It seemed that now the universe had finally given him his comeuppance. John felt regret, but for what he couldn't say. All of his choices, the good and the bad, had brought him to this moment. Maybe it was for a life he could never have, far away from this mess, where he'd and his family would be safe from the cruel claws of fate.

His family. They were gone, and John would try his damnedest to get them back, but that didn't change the fact that they were gone right now. Arthur was all he had left. He rolled over, and Arthur sighed.

"Y'know, it wasn't them that made me come back," he murmured into the darkness. Two stalls over, a horse stomped its hoof.

"Marston, what are you talkin' about?" Arthur muttered. John could hear him roll over. He sounded like he'd been sleeping, but John knew he hadn't.

"That year I left for. I wasn't plannin' on coming back at all. I just wanted to say that it weren't Abigail and Jack that made me do it," he clarified. If he was being honest, John didn't know why he was telling Arthur this now.

"What did?"

"You." John answered immediately. It would always be him.

Arthur didn't reply after that. John waited, almost nervous, until he realized that Arthur had fallen asleep.

The next day was hard, as were the days after that. The government's men put them both on a train to Armadillo, where they were told to start looking for Bill Williamson. Apparently, he'd started his own gang in an abandoned fort not far out of town and was terrorizing locals and travelers alike. 

It was a hot, dusty day in New Austin, and there was a brittle wind blowing through. If John were a more insightful man, he'd say that trouble started brewing from the moment he stepped off the train. A man was waiting there for them, old but talkative. He chatted the whole way as he led them out of town, with John asking a few questions and Arthur staying grimly silent. Eventually, they were hunkered down behind a rock over which could be seen the decrepit Fort Mercer. Their guide abandoned them there, and John didn't begrudge him. He would never admit it out loud, but the thought of facing Bill and whatever army he had amassed after so many years set his stomach twisting. 

"Any plan?" He asked Arthur, who'd been staring silently at the fort since they arrived. Arthur blinked, shrugged, and scraped some dirt off his boot in a pretense of calm. John, who had been watching him his whole life, saw right through it. 

"I-" His voice was rough and he wouldn't look John in the eyes. "Shit, John, I don't know, go up and ask him if he wants to surrender and be handed over to the government?" He paused but before John could respond, started up again. "I mean, these Pinkerton boys show up outta' nowhere, kidnap your wife and child and Laura, then ask us to hunt down our own brothers and- and they don't give us nothin' to do it with!" He raged, voice building up to a hoarse shout. 

John didn't know what to say. Their situation was shitty all around. But the foolish, unrealistic plan Arthur had suggested as a joke was the only one they had. John was no planner and he could see that it pained Arthur to even think about doing this. 

So, John decided to do what he was worst at: talking.

Before Arthur could stop him, John was out walking in the wide, dusty lane that led to the front gate of Fort Mercer. 

"Bill!" He shouted, arms thrown wide. "Bill Williamson! I know you're here, and I've come to talk!" John could hear muffled noises coming from inside the fort and Arthur's enraged whispers from behind the rock. 

"Go away John, I'm sure you don't wanna die a second time." Bill warned from behind the wall. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut, but John kept on talking. 

"No," he ceded, "but I do want my family back."

The barrel of a rifle came up from behind the wall. John couldn't see the shooter, but he hazarded a guess that they were aiming for him. 

"What're you on about, boy?" Bill asked. But before John could open his mouth, Bill said, "Never mind. You have until the count of ten to get the Hell out of my sights before I run outta patience." 

"Bill-"

"One." The countdown had begun. John tuned out Arthur, looked at the barrel resting lazily on the wall, heatwaves making it waver like ripples on a pond. 

"Two." What was John supposed to do?

"Three." Give up?

"Four." Start shooting?"

"Five." Call Bill's bluff?

"Six." Keep talking? Time was halfway up and he still hadn't moved.

"Seven!" John could hear the agitation in Bill's voice. Even if he ran, there was still a good chance they'd shoot.

"Eight!" There was no time. 

"Nine!" Imminent death felt different this time. There was no peace, he didn't want to die. John had been given a second chance and now he was about to waste it. 

"Ten!" A single shot went off, and a cry went up.

In front of him, John saw Arthur's body fall to the ground, an ugly red stain spreading from a hole in his front. John couldn't stop the involuntary shudder that went through him at the sight. "No!" He sank to his knees and crawled to Arthur. When he got there, Arthur had a hand on his abdomen to keep pressure on and was grimacing up at him. "Goddamn you, Arthur Morgan," he choked out with tears of relief threatening to spill over. But they weren't out of danger yet. 

"You better leave, Marston!" Bill shouted. "'Less you wanna die here with 'im!" John spared a glance towards the Fort, but he couldn't stop looking at the spurting out between Arthur's fingers. A lifetime ago, he would've been able to handle it. A lifetime ago, getting shot was an occupational hazard and everyone in their little family knew Death's presence. 

"John," Arthur said, voice weak with pain, "you need to go-" a spasm wracked his body, cutting him off. John wouldn't leave him. He couldn't. If he needed to, he'd die here with him. 

Arthur was heavy, but John barely felt it with all the adrenaline that was rushing through him. He managed to drag a groaning Arthur back behind the outcropping and out of range before whistling for the horses. As he quickly lashed Arthur to Buell's saddle (the horse seemed to know the trouble and let him go with only a nip) he heard Bill shout out after them, "If I ever see either 'a you again, you won't be comin' out alive!"

John rode for what seemed like hours, anxiety stretching out the minuets. He pushed New Girl hard with Buell following behind and didn't slow until he saw a ranch come into view. By that time Arthur was nearly unconscious and John fought the urge to snap at the kind woman who introduced herself as Bonnie MacFarlane and helped him get Arthur into a small guest shack near the main house. Time sped up then, whipping itself into a whirlwind of things to get done and discussed. The only part of it John really remembered is, finally, settling himself into a chair near Arthur's bed and thinking _we really need to stop doing this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas and New Year y'all! Things are finally getting going and there's a lot to juggle, both inside the story and out. I did some research to jog my memory on RDR1, but if anything's wrong then please tell me. I'm still not quite sure where this story is going to go, but I'm sure you're tired of hearing that by now. Warning for future chapters: the idea of having smut in the fic has occurred to me, but I don't know. If any of you really want something to happen then leave a comment and I'll try to work it in; otherwise it depends on how comfortable I'm feeling when (or if) the time comes. I'm also going to be working on a new fic, What Lurks in the Night (Destiel), so feel free to read that while you're waiting for updates here. See you later!


	12. NOT A CHAPTER

Alright guys. For those of you who've stuck with me this far (I'm sure there's not many) thank you. I'm sorry to let you down. 

I've got a really bad case of writer's block, and have decided to take a step back to reevaluate the story. I didn't have much of a plan going into this, and it was something way too big to start after not writing for so long. 

I don't know when I'll be back, but I do not plan to abandon this story.

Thanks, and goodbye. 


End file.
